


And miles to go before I sleep

by Heart_Of_Steel_And_Fandoms



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: #Progress, Abusing the timelines like whoa, Actually just sexual Stiles, All about the Stiles, Allison/Isaac/Scott, BAMF!Stiles, Background Poly, Both the tags and the story, But it fit, But they do NOT sparkle, Danny is Part of the Pack, Danny is hilarious, Danny sticks up for Stiles, Dead hunters, Demons Are Assholes, Derek is Alpha, Derek is in denial, Derek is maybe only partially a failwolf, Derek is pining, Derek realises his mistake, Derek's an asshole, Everyone in the pack is a Senior!, F/M, Finished, Frottage, Illegal/Unknwon substance abuse, Interspecies Relationships, Isn't that great?, Like dysmally slow, Lydia Is So Done, Lydia is a BAMF, M/M, Mage!Stiles, Magical hangover removal powers, Mentioned Character Death, Mentioned Substance Abuse, Mentioned previous underage, Multi, Nice Peter, Pixies are awesome, Possession of Stiles is stupid, Rebuilt Hale House, Sarcastic comments turn Derek on, Scarring, Scott is literally a puppy, Scott's clueless, Somewhere in the middle of season 3, Sorry Not Sorry, Stiles Feels, Stiles Has Nightmares, Stiles Has Panic Attacks, Stiles and Lydia are besties, Stiles centric, Stiles doesn't take care of himself, Stiles glows, Stiles had a pseudo pack in New York, Stiles has trouble dealing with emotions, Stiles hates demons, Stiles is Not a Virgin, Stiles is awesome, Stiles is seriously and unhealthily addicted to coffee, Stiles is snarky, Stiles will do anything to protect everyone, That last one was recommended, The Sheriff's first name is John, The pack are all adorable, Then RST, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, Torture, UST, Underage Drinking, Underage substance abuse, Very very slow burn Sterek, What is this 'tag limit', Whatever I do what I want, bisexual!Stiles, except Derek, hand-jobs, i still don't know what i'm doing, looking at you, not permanent, obviously, sorry i guess, stiles is kicked out of the pack, talk of switching, twilight - Freeform, vampires are real
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-10
Updated: 2016-11-14
Packaged: 2018-04-14 00:13:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 18
Words: 113,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4542870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Heart_Of_Steel_And_Fandoms/pseuds/Heart_Of_Steel_And_Fandoms
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles leaves Beacon Hills at the end of Sophomore year. He's been abandoned by the pack, scarred by the hunters, and carries the equivalent of a volcano of magic inside him. Needless to say, his life sucks. But when Stiles comes back to Beacon Hills, over a year later and with a new persona, he isn't the same powerless human the pack remembers. And when demons threaten Beacon Hills, he proves to everyone that sarcasm isn't his only defence.</p><p>*Currently under Construction- I'm editing the earlier chapters bit by bit, though the overall content will not change. Thanks for checking out this story!*</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The scars I have aren't just physical. Will you-! Scott, stop trying to scent mark me I'm trying to be mysterious!

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys! Sorry my summary sucks, writing them is definitely not my forte! So this is my first *real* work on AO3, and it's going to be pretty so-so, but I'm writing it because I think the world needs more BAMF!Stiles with an attitude. updates will be slow, but please leave a comment if you liked it or thought it was even remotely good!  
> I do not own any of the characters or place names.  
> Tags will be added as the story progresses.
> 
> A/N- I've tagged this as explicit just in case, because at the very least it's mature but I'd rather be safe and go for Explicit. Hope you enjoy! :D

In hindsight, Stiles supposed he probably should have expected it. If he had, maybe he could have prepared for this bone deep, heart wrenching, all-consuming pain that followed the Alpha’s words. His heart tripped on a beat in his chest and he felt as if a hunter had stabbed him through with a cattle rod. Again.

Scratch that. He didn’t think anything could have prepared him for this.

“What?” The word slips from between his lips quicker than his brain can catch up, full of a sickening amount of disbelief, because there’s no way he heard what he thought he heard. No way Derek, of all people, would even think about doing this to him. Not now, when his ribs were still bruised and the scars from the hunters' knives burned at every movement, and not ever.

But the words had been said and now hung between them, ominous, brutal, and the rest of the Pack were deadly silent. No one moved.

“You’re not Pack, Stiles.” Four words. It took four words for Stiles’ heart to shatter in his chest, four words for his brain to completely revaluate everything he thought he knew. God, he had been so stupid. Believing that he could have this. Believing, for one second, that he was anything more than just a liability to them. Weak, useless, human Stiles.

He took one step back, then another, then another, his footsteps loud and harsh on the pine floor, and Scott whined from across the room- no doubt sensing Stiles’ entire world crumbling down around him. His best friend was perceptive like that, though it wasn't as though they'd spent enough time around each other recently to still be considered "best friends".

Stiles forced his eyes away from the floor, where they had taken residence as soon as he felt the light atmosphere of a few moments ago change into something more sinister. If Derek was going to kick him out, Stiles had no intention of making it any easier for him- he stared straight into the Alpha's eyes, allowing none of his hurt to shine through.

Derek’s eyes hadn’t even bothered shifting to red, because this was Stiles, Stiles who wasn't a wolf, who didn't pose any threat, and who didn't even have the luxury of being labelled an omega now. He was just- human. Packless, pointless, human. Stiles straightened his shoulders and lifted his chin. There was no way he was going to give Derek the satisfaction of seeing him break down, of seeing the effect his words had, even as his mind revolted and his chest was weighed down by emotions he'd prefer to ignore.

That was when the anger kicked in. A swirl of anger and bitterness and contempt- the ugly emotions that Stiles had always felt too readily for his own comfort, the ones he pretended he never experienced. But this; this pushed his ability, his _willingness_ , to bury those feelings as he always did. Stiles was done. Finished. He was _sick_ of being forgotten and ignored and used as it suited for research or bait. He was just- human. Done.

Stiles glanced around the room briefly at the people he had considered friends. At the people he was beginning to view as family, that scary word that prompted the insane loyalty and vicious protectiveness Stiles had only ever felt before for his mother, his dad, and Scott. They all avoided his gaze. Even Scott, clasping Allison’s left hand between his own, refused to meet his eye, though he had to have felt Stiles' gaze. _So much for ten years’ worth of friendship_ , Stiles thought to himself bitterly, a sharp throb that felt like disappointment pounding beneath his heart.

“You’re human, and a liability. You get hurt too easily, and we can’t waste resources on protecting you during a battle-” Derek continued, blissfully unaware of the fact that Stiles had accepted it already, speaking as if he expected to be argued with, as if Stiles would want to stay with people who evidently had no interest in him. He wasn't quite that desperate for companionship.

He held up a hand to cut off Derek’s litany of excuses. There was nothing that could convince him that this was even remotely a good idea, driving him away, wilfully ignoring how much he had sacrificed in the past for the pack, so if that was what Derek was trying to accomplish, he was wasting his breath.

Stiles shook his head ruefully, the ever present smirk sharper than usual on his face, like cut glass. Wearing a mask had always been far easier than being vulnerable to other people. Stiles had a lot of experience with masks.

“Wow, Derek.” Stiles said, his calm lowered voice in sharp contrast with the way his upper lip curled in disgust. “You even seem to be buying your own bullshit.” The Alpha’s nostrils flared at the blatant insult, but wisely he said nothing. Any other day, any other time when Stiles' head wasn’t pounding at him, and his recent injures weren’t attempting to strangle him with the pain, and he had a bit of space to actually stop and just _think_ for a moment, perhaps Stiles would’ve argued. But maybe he wouldn't have. Maybe this was where he was always headed, from that very first night in the preserve when he and Scott set things into motion, from throwing lacrosse balls to test control and throwing Derek under the bus for a murder he didn't commit. Maybe. But it's not like it matters now.

Better to get this over with, and leave him with some semblance of control over the entire situation. “But that's alright. I happen to agree with you. So it's fine.”

Derek was frozen mid tirade, his mouth still open in such a way that were it were any other situation, Stiles might have found it comical. As it was, Stiles felt like he was going to throw up everything in his stomach, his blood, his organs. His heart was threatening to rip itself out of his chest with every staccato beat, and he could hear the pained whimpers from the wolf-members of the Pack echoing in the room.

So this is what leaving your pack felt like. At least he wasn’t the only one experiencing this. Not like the stoic Alpha in front of him would ever show the slightest bit of pain for his actions, or remorse, or genuine human emotion. Of course not, not when he was the _big bad Alpha_ in control.

“Fine?” Derek repeated, and Stiles shrugged, carelessly blase.

“Sure, whatever. No longer in the Pack, got it. That means no freebies, dude. Can’t come crawling into my room at all hours of the night because you got yourselves another murderous creature. If I’m out, I’m out. You deal with the fall back.”

Jesus, this hurt like a bitch. All he wanted to do was crawl back to the Pack and bury himself in them, wrap spindly limbs around them all and not let them go, refuse to leave because they were _his_ damn it, and he _knew_ they could feel it too. But he couldn’t do that. Not when he was barely treated like pack normally. Seemed it took him leaving before his so called ‘pack-mates’ remembered about him at all. Stiles was not bitter, at all. Nor did he feel the irrational urge to growl aloud at the very thought of leaving them.

Well. Maybe a little. But he had more control over himself than that.

Derek- the _Alpha_ \- seemed shocked with how easy he had capitulated, and it further drove home how little any of them knew him, but honestly, what did they expect? That Stiles was just going to sit around and be their human punching bag forever, content with an in-between status, forever drawn in by his knowledge of the supernatural but forever kept away by his humanity?

He had more self-respect than that. At least, he hoped he did, which was sort of the same thing.

The pain in his chest grew even worse, and he viciously hoped it was as painful, if not more, for everyone else. Because even though they were whining, and wolfing out and making all sorts of kicked-puppy noises- no one, not one, said anything to stop him. To stop Derek kicking him out, or to stop Stiles leaving.

The message came through loud and clear.

Swallowing audibly Stiles simply nodded and set his jaw tight. He would walk out of here with his head held high. He wouldn’t cry, or yell, or show weakness. Because Stiles had spent enough time around wolves to know it was never a good idea to show vulnerability. Showing your neck got it ripped out. And showing your pressure point got you killed.

The room was thick with the tension of emotional werewolves, and Stiles took a few seconds to look around and commit them all to memory. Because he sure a fuck was not going to pine after them all like a desperate puppy. He wasn’t one of the dogs here. The joke brought a pained smile to his face, so similar to ones he had voiced before, always met with groans and reluctant laughter, but this time he didn’t voice it aloud. Didn’t think he could bare it.

Stiles looked at Boyd, and Erica, and Isaac, and recalled how they had each matured and grown up in their own ways since becoming werewolves, came into their own and flourished within the pack. Remembered laughing movie nights and whispered confessions and PlayStation games where Erica could beat them all single-handedly.

Looked at Jackson, who was still the world’s biggest douche, but had somehow become someone Stiles could actually talk to, and Lydia, who turned out to be better suited to the friend role then not-so-secret-secret crush. Who had stayed up with him at all hours of the night to research and plan, at least until a few months ago, who had been one of the last to draw away from him, and the most visibly reluctant to do so.

Looked at Allison, and, as per usual, saw Scott not more than a metre away, never far away, and had to fight to dismiss the flare of bitterness in his chest at the sight. Scott, who was possibly the only reason Stiles had stayed sane this long, who he shared so many giddy and painful and angry and emotional memories with, but who had still followed the pack’s lead in ignoring him. Dismissing him as worthless.

And finally at Derek. Derek, who he had saved, turned in, trapped, lost, almost gotten him killed, too many times to think about. Who he had held up for hours in a pool, who he had given away under torture and then saved, who he had planned against and planned with, fought and argued with, who he had pulled out of his shell and finally, finally, thought he was getting somewhere. Who he had accidently and without restraint or conscious thought fallen in love with. And who stood in front of him as he broke his heart.

Their pack. _His_ pack. But not anymore. Stiles had to go, now, before he burst into tears, couldn’t bear the idea of showing them anymore vulnerability than he already had, consciously or no. They weren’t pack, his brain insisted, but his instincts were telling him otherwise and it was crazy and strange and he couldn’t deal with this right now, just couldn’t.

Eyes fluttered briefly shut, before snapping open with resolve. If that’s how they wanted to play it. So be it. They made their choice.

Turning his back to the pack in the utmost disrespect, Stiles sauntered out of the Hale house like he hadn’t a care in the world. Like the memories of putting this place back together, brick by brick, and pizza nights with celebratory snacks and drinks, and sleeping spread out on the crappy couch in the sitting room in one big dog pile because they were too lazy to bother moving weren’t suffocating him. Like he wasn’t haunted by the memories of pack.

To his relief, Stiles only fumbled his Jeep’s keys once before unlocking the door, before escaping into the darkened cabin. But he still didn’t break down. Not yet, his brain whispered, not when they can hear you.

Numb fingers turned the key in the ignition, sightless eyes guided the Jeep down the secret road only known to the pack itself, and, now, Stiles.

He made it halfway down the main road before the tears started falling. Made it another 100 metres before pulling in and all but collapsing over the wheel. It hurt bad, awful, like knives being stabbed into his chest over, and over. Like his brain being squeezed and ripped into by barbed rusty hooks. Surely it wasn’t supposed to feel like this. How could anyone ever bear it? Some people _choose_ this.

Stiles spent a long time crying. He cried for the pack, and himself, and Beacon Hills, and his dad, and his mom, and anyone who had ever been hurt in all of history. He cried because it hurt, and it would hurt even more tomorrow, and the future seemed prolonged and empty with only the promise of this almost hollow pain. 

Tears slipped unbidden down his cheeks, and his dry, heaving sobs could be heard oh so clearly in the confines of the vehicle. Stiles cried like it was the end of his entire world, because it was.

And then, when all the tears that could fall from his eyes had, and all the sobs that could be wracked from his body passed, he sat up, wiped his cheeks, and calmly turned the jeep’s engine on. He was never going to cry for them again, he thought vehemently, and if he was surprised by the acidity of his own mental voice then he didn’t let himself think of it.

The drive back to the Stilinski house went by quickly, and the next thing Stiles knew he was pushing the front door open. He couldn’t remember the drive back, couldn’t remember how he had managed to make his way home at all, but the evidence of time passing was irrefutable, even if he couldn't remember it. 

His dad wasn’t home, and Stiles let out a breath of relief. He didn’t think he could deal with his father right now, not without breaking down and he’d already sworn to himself he wouldn’t. Deep breaths, Stilinkski.

Can’t afford a panic attack now.

It wasn't even like him being kicked out of the pack was a surprise. If he's being honest with himself, which is not something he has ever enjoyed, it had been a few months in coming. At first after everything had settled down somewhat, things were going well, no- they were going brilliantly. Stiles had a new pack, new friends, made connections with people not Scott or his dad. He let people in, and for a while it was amazing.

Looking back, there wasn’t a specific time when everything changed. It wasn’t like one morning Stiles woke up part of a pack and the next as a stranger. It was more… gradual. Slow.

Things really came to a head when the rogue hunters kidnapped him a few weeks ago, but even before then the pack had treated him differently.

They started forgetting to invite him to meetings, to training sessions, to pack nights. They stopped randomly showing up at his door, though more commonly his window, to hang out, stopped unconsciously touching him as they passed to reassure themselves that yes, he was still pack, he was still there. Stopped scent-marking him.

It took him longer than it should have, just over a week, to recognise the signs. He was, slowly but surely, being abandoned. Being left. It wouldn’t be the first time.

Fast forward two months and Stiles could barely remember the last time he had talked with any of them beyond simple greetings, couldn’t remember the last time he had hung out with them as part of the pack. Prior awareness or no, Derek telling him he was no longer pack still hurt like getting shot in the gut. Stiles would know.

The jagged edges of the fresh wound burned with each reminder, every memory pouring salt and acid on open flesh, and Stiles stumbled up the stairs to his room, eyes blurry with unshed tears that he was absolutely refusing to let fall. Was this what Omegas felt like, he wondered bleakly, clutching at his skin as if it was going to crawl away from him, when they lost their pack?

It couldn’t possibly be. It was too intense, too permanent, too much-just- just too much. Stiles was hyperventilating before he could stop himself, aching breaths in and spotty vision that fed the panic in his chest which sped up his breath, a familiar never-ending cycle.

Scrambling at his bedside table for the light, his fingernails scratched against a round metallic capsule he had forgotten to put away the night before when he was examining it. Suddenly, abruptly, his breathing calmed. Grasping at it, Stiles held it in front of his face reverently. Wolfsbane bullet. One he had found on the floor after one of the more heated battles, and for reasons unbeknownst to even himself, had picked up and shoved in his hoodie.

Between the stench of blood and wounds and victory, none of the wolves had been able to call him out on it. As soon as he had gotten home, Stiles had infused it with mountain ash using a spell Deaton had taught him, hiding its scent.

Perhaps hiding a bullet in his room was the pinnacle of suspicious behaviour, but it wasn’t like his dad checked his room for weapons. At least, not often. And not successfully.

Stiles was many things, but he could never be called stupid, and he definitely wasn’t stupid enough to leave his weapons lying around for just anyone to see. They were hidden under a loose board in his wardrobe. Cliché, but effective.

Stiles lay down gingerly on the bed, crossing his arms above his pillow, and stared blankly at the ceiling. There was still a mark on it from Isaac throwing his controller away in disgust at Erica's unbeatable high score.

His heart ached and his head pounded. He needed to do something. Something definitive, final, that would get the message across to his stupid heart. His thumb rolled over the bullet still in his hand. Something that would get the message to the pack too that he was deadly serious. His hands clenched into fists when the thought came to him. He would go see Deaton tomorrow. He would get mountain ash, and make a circle around the house, because he meant what he had said. If he was out of the Pack, then they could damn well stay the fuck away from him, and away from his dad.

He would go to Deaton, and he would ask about the Spark that the vet claimed to have seen in him. He would tell his dad everything, because now his dad was the only family he had left, and Stiles was sick of the lies. And if Deaton couldn’t help him use his Spark, then he would find someone who could. There was nothing left for him in Beacon Hills.

…

With the next morning dawned the realisation that the day before had, in fact, actually happened and wasn’t just some nightmare he had thought up. That was a sucky moment.

Stiles groaned as he pulled himself off the bed, hands going immediately to his throbbing ribs. The pillow he had slept on was damp, but it wouldn’t have been the first time he cried in his sleep.

Just the first time in years.

Rubbing a fist over his heart trying, in vain, to ease the ache there, Stiles stumbled to the bathroom, eyes crusty with sleep. The closing of the bathroom door shook him out of the daze and he casually flicked on the light.

No one would have seen that he avoided the mirror unless they were looking for it. After his mom had died, and back when he still had panic attacks every day, Stiles never looked in the mirror.

Avoided it like the plague, because just because you lose something doesn’t mean it’s not still part of you, doesn’t mean it doesn’t leave scars. And Stiles had more than his fair share of scars.

Steeling himself, Stiles lifted his gaze to his reflection, and froze. Because he barely even recognised himself anymore.

Instead of the mumbling, clumsy, weak liability, Stiles saw someone he could never have anticipated. He saw someone older, harder, stronger, someone who fought with wolves and still made it out alive. Someone he never dreamed of being.

Because Stiles was fine with being the comedian. The joker, the comic relief, the human in the bunch of misfits and monsters.

Okay, maybe ‘fine’ is a bit of a stretch, but the point was that he wasn’t trying to change himself!

But, looking in the mirror, Stiles wondered how the hell he thought he wouldn’t change.

There were scars decorating most of his body now. The slashes just above his ribs from the Alpha’s claws all those weeks ago, the red burned scar tissue from taking down the faeries, the claw mark imprinted right under his left collarbone from that rogue Omega. Then there were the multitude of small slashes, the bruises that never fully healed, the trail of dots down his breastplate from being shot. Twice. With those special hunter bullets. (Boy, was that hard to explain to his dad!)

And that was just the front of him. On his back, from the tip of his shoulder plate down to his hip bone, was one big scar, about half an inch thick and deep. That particular one had almost killed him. It was only by luck, and Melissa McCall’s quick thinking, that he had escaped with his life. He couldn’t even remember which lie he had told his dad for that one, only that it hadn’t been the truth.

Obviously he hadn’t told him that it had been Gerard, Scott’s girlfriend Allison’s crazy grandfather who tried to kill everyone so he could get the bite from an Alpha werewolf and not die himself, who had hurt him.

His father probably would have snapped and sent him to a physiatrist for that one.

But underneath that, behind all the scars and the bruises and the pain, Stiles was actually… pretty damn hot, if he did say so himself. He had a six-pack, and while he was still lean, you couldn’t call him lanky anymore.

He wasn’t Derek hot, but he wasn’t as skinny as he had been, what, a year ago? Was that all? Damn, a lot had happened in a year, Stiles thought, still trying to come to terms with  
his new physique.

His arms had actual muscle tone, his chest had filled out and the ever-present baby fat on his body had been stripped away, replaced by muscle from training with the Pack, and learning how to use his weakness to his advantage and running. A hell of a lot of running.

Pity no one had ever seen how he had turned out. As a general rule, Stiles kept his shirt on, both around the house and the Pack, because looking at scars made people uncomfortable, and showing his scrawny body off to werewolves made Stiles uncomfortable.

Two birds with one stone.

Except now, now, with no werewolf feelings to worry about hurting, or protective instincts to speak off, Stiles had no reason to hide. Excluding his dad, but that particular bag of cats would be dealt with later.

Stiles grinned at the mirror, and was pleased with how it looked slightly homicidal. Huh. Looked like hanging around all day with werewolves rubbed off on people. Who knew?

Stiles was still pondering this new information as he pushed the door open. And he came face to face with his dad. “Stiles?” his dad asked, brows furrowing, and for one brief second Stiles had the crazy thought that he might get away with it, that his dad might not notice the crazy ass battle wounds winding all the way around Stiles’ torso. But his dad was a cop, and apparently the Powers-That-Be had it out for him because the Sheriff took only a few seconds to notice the fact that his son looked like he had been through a god damn war.

Well, technically, Stiles had been through one. Or two. Really the details didn’t matter.

What mattered was, at that precise second, Sheriff Stilinski saw the meat-grinder that was his son’s skin and his eyes practically popped out of his head. This was so not going to go well.

“Hey dad,” Stiles began nervously, running his fingers through his new long hair, “Something I’ve been meaning to tell you…”

…

“Werewolves.” Stated the Sheriff, simply and with just enough condescension to raise Stiles’ temper. He tried to lessen it, for his dad’s sake, but found himself more and more angry with each second that went past.

“Yeah dad,” he confirmed, wetting his lips. What would he do if his dad didn’t believe him? He didn’t have Scott to call on anymore, no one he could use as proof. How do you show someone werewolves exist without the use of actual werewolves?

The Sheriff just breathed a deep breath out, clearly tired with his son, and, for a split second, Stiles was beyond pissed at him. He knew, boy did he, that he hadn’t been honest with his dad in months. He had lied, and sure, it was for his dad’s own good, but his dad didn’t know that, did he?

And Stiles had seen, no matter how much the Sheriff had tried to hide it, how he had slowly given up on Stiles. Given up on ever learning the truth. And it had hurt Stiles in a deep way, had physically pained him that he had caused the look of weary resignation on his own dad’s face.

But.

But the Sheriff just immediately believed the worst in him. Couldn’t see the truth right in front of his own eyes, that for once, for fucking once, Stiles was telling him the absolute truth, no matter how hard to believe.

And that hurt.

“Look, Stiles,” His dad began, and even with just those words Stiles could hear the futility, the fact that his dad had stopped even trying to believe him. “Just stop, okay?” And Stiles’ heart stopped beating. Because he still held himself responsible, with the guilt and pain filled reasoning of an eight year old, for his mom’s death. And he had waited, with bated breath, for months on end for his father to look at him with hate, or anger because he had killed his mother.

Logically, Stiles knew it wasn’t true. Knew his father thought nothing of the sort, and never had. But for that second in between words, that one breath, Stiles prepared himself to be abandoned by someone else.

“Stop with the lies, and, since you’re obviously intent on keeping them up, just stop thinking I’m a fool, okay? Stop with,” his dad waved a hand in the air indicating the current conversation topic, “all this. Just stop.”

And Stiles’ guilt slid away like quicksand, replaced by a terrible ferocious anger. At himself, at his dad, at Derek and Scott and werewolves in general who put him in this position, at the world at large for being totally unfair.

His breath sped up, and it felt almost like a panic attack, except it seemed like the very air they breathed was on fire, and it was too much, and the wind through his hair turned vicious, and the house began to shake at its foundations and everything seemed like nothing that happened in the blink of an eye.

It took a slap to bring him back to awareness, and the pain of it barely even registered on his pain scale anymore, and how terrible was his life that he had a freaking pain scale, and that a human slap from a Sheriff didn’t even show like a blip on his radar.

Judging by the way his dad worriedly held the slapped cheek in his hand, he didn’t echo the sentiment. Stiles’ vision was blurry, and he felt completely drained, like he had just gone 3 days on snack food and no sleep before a four hour battle with an elf.

He even fucking knew what that felt like. Again, what the hell was his life?

Another slap, this time between his shoulder blades, sent a burst of adrenaline through his body, and he had tensed and reached for the knife ever present in his pocket before he registered that (a) this was his dad (b) he was still shirtless and his knife wasn’t in his pocket and (c) he had just pushed enough magic out of himself that he really should be dead.

Waving that thought away, because obsessing with it wouldn’t change the fact that he was in fact very much alive, it registered that he hadn’t actually pushed the magic out of himself as much as… drew everything else in. Technicalities.

The kitchen, where Stiles had moved after his dad had seen his scars because, for some completely unknown reason, it seemed like the perfect place to explain to someone about the supernatural horrors that lived and hunted in Beacon Hills, looked like a bomb site.

And not that quaint little cliché parents told their children about untidy bedrooms. It literally looked like a bomb had landed and blown it apart.

“Shit.” Stiles muttered, mostly to himself, before sweeping a hand like they did in Harry Potter to put everything back the way it was. He definitely was not expecting it would work, because, hello, Harry freakin’ Potter, but apparently J.K.Rowling got something right as the kitchen magically put itself to rights under his, admittedly rather confused, eyes.

While it took a lot less effort to put everything back the way it had been as it had to blow it all up (heh, irony) by the end of it he was pretty ready to pass out. And then eat a whole cow. And shower.

Probably not it that order. But, hey, weirder things have happened right?

Stiles sighed and sagged against the wall that he somehow ended up leaning on. The Sheriff sat in front of him, on his hunches, a disbelieving expression of mild panic and oh-fuck-I-think-he-was-actually-serious-shit-what-the-hell-do-I-do on his face. Stiles owns that particular look after running with wolves for a year. Like, he had it trademarked by him. When people wear that look other people think of him.

Query. Can you get a concussion from magical voodoo shit? Because he is having mental-verbal diarrhoea and the only possible conclusion is that he has a concussion.  
Or maybe he’s just nervous. Yeah, it’s probably that.

If his laugh is a little touch hysterical when he pushes himself off the floor and spends a good thirty seconds swaying, well, no one can blame him.

“So dad,” he said, hiccups interrupting his speech as he tried really hard not to pass out as it would probably push his dad past his breaking point, “You believe me now?”

Sheriff Stilinski’s stunned nod is the only reply he gets. Whatever, he’ll take it and count it as a win. He can’t really afford to be picky at the moment anyway.

…

“Deaton!” Stiles called out loudly, bypassing the bell on the door in favour of banging angrily. His head was throbbing because apparently the backlash of using magic is like a really bad hangover. And Stiles had had his fair share of bad hangovers.

Because of course werewolves were practically immune to hangovers, but still loved alcohol. Oh the irony.

If his dad found out he would absolutely freak, but, on the long, long list of things that would freak his dad out, Stiles had the suspicion that underage drinking wasn’t a major priority.

Not like almost dying a couple of times a month, being friends with murderers (though technically they weren’t exactly murderers of humans) and the fact that he could tell you exactly where in the human body to pierce if you wanted someone to die in seconds.

Compared to all that, a little bit of alcohol isn’t that big of a deal.

The vet/ex-emissary/guy-who-seems-to-enjoy-being-cryptic-and-elusive answers Stiles’ heavy handed knock with a bemused smile, eyes blinking slowly in a way that seems almost catatonic.

“You said I had the Spark.” Stiles says without further ado, not bothering with pleasantries because this is Deaton, and he probably doesn’t even care if Stiles forgets to say hello.

Then Deaton got this slightly pinched look on his face like he did care, and Stiles had to resist the urge to roll his eyes. He failed.

One exaggerated eye roll later, just because Stiles was a snarky bastard at the best of times, he pushed past Deaton into the back, which had unofficially become the secret location for all the pack’s supernatural needs.

Stiles himself had spent more time than the others there, except maybe Scott, because it was often left to him to procure the necessary ingredients for any spells that had to happen. The pack had also noticed, by way of trial and error, that Deaton seemed less inclined to be his usual mysterious, emotionless self around Stiles.

Of course, Stiles was absolutely delighted when they discovered this. Having to spend more time with the vet seemed to him a sick, sick punishment, if only because it meant a lot of unanswered questions and half-hearted replies.

Stiles was a hyper-active teenager with ADHD and an affinity for running his mouth. Silence wasn’t, and never would be, his friend, but it seemed second nature to Deaton. There were a lot of awkward one-sided conversations. More than either party really cared to admit.

“You have a spark, yes.” Deaton confirmed using his usual calm tone, but somehow Stiles noticed, or thought he did, an undercurrent of tension. Huh. Either hanging out with Deaton had made him desperate to see some actual emotion in the man, or it had made him more aware of the unspoken emotions that barely flickered across his face.

Either way, there was a tension in the air that whispered of more than just a friendly conversation between two people.

People, friends, acquaintances, not-quite-enemies, friend-of-a-friend, enemy-of-my-enemy? How exactly would one describe their relationship? A mutually beneficial partnership?

Wait, focus, Stilinski. See, this was what he meant by ‘hyper-active’. Inability to focus could also be a good description.

“Well, I want to learn more about my Spark, so…” He let the sentence hang, and noted the smallest furrow of Deaton’s brow.

The flash of pride he felt that Deaton showed some emotion was ridiculous and must never be mentioned. Ever. Under any circumstances.

“I’m afraid I can’t help you Stiles.” Deaton told him, and the man did look genuinely sorry about it, enough so that Stiles’ wayward magic didn’t explode at the emotional response from his next question. “And what about your pack? Have you consulted them in this wish?”

Oh so now he had to ask them for permission to learn more about his own abilities? Fuck that.  
“They no longer hold any weight in my decisions.” Stiles stated stiffly, and it occurred to him that maybe he watched too many sci-fi movies because his voice took on that polite, regency era tone when he was really mad. And he maybe had a soft spot for Downton Abbey, not that he would ever, ever, confirm it if asked. He still had some sense of dignity left.

Admittedly not much, but still, in principle.

Deaton turned too knowledgeable eyes to him, and Stiles fought the urge to blush under his scrutiny. He had nothing to be embarrassed about, he reminded himself, it was their fault. They kicked him out, not the other way around.

But the vet only let out a soft sound of understanding in the back of his throat before turning away.

“I can give you the address of a friend of mine up north.” He told him, clearing his throat pointedly at seeing Stiles’ bemused expression, “Yes, Stiles, I have in fact got friends.” 

Murmuring something under his breath that sounded a lot like ‘child’, Deaton continued. “But I will need time to contact her first to ask for her permission. If granted, she will train you and show you everything you need to know.”

Stiles simply nodded his thanks, but didn’t move from his place in the middle of the floor. “Anything else?” Deaton questioned, eyebrows marginally higher up his forehead than usual.

He must have been really ruffled to be showing this much emotion, Stiles thought, somewhat nastily in the privacy of his own head.

“Yeah, actually,” he managed to say, the words forming themselves in his mouth as if he had planned this. He really hadn’t. “I was wondering if you could give me some mountain ash.” Okay, he had planned that, but he quietly wished he could have been smoother about it, rather than just blurting out the request.

Deaton’s hands stilled where they were straightening out the instruments on the table, but his face, when he turned to Stiles, was as still and solemn as ever.

“Are you sure?” Came the quiet question, and Stiles gritted his teeth. The pack made their choice, Stiles repeated to himself, so there was no point in feeling guilty.

Mind made up, Stiles jerked his head in a flimsy portrayal of a nod, and Deaton reached under his desk to withdraw a small, grey pouch. It was unassuming, but Stiles had worked with mountain ash before, and knew exactly the power held in its atoms.

Weighing the package in his hand, Stiles guessed it would weigh at no more than 20g. Hopefully his spark would help stretch it to line the house. It should, but Stiles had had enough experience with magic to know it was never completely reliable.

With one final nod to Deaton, and forcing himself out the door, Stiles gripped the bag tighter in his hand and left. If there was any luck left in the universe, Deaton’s contact would get back to him sooner rather than later, with confirmation, and then Stiles could leave all this behind him.

Maybe the distance would kill the pain in his heart where the Pack Bond used to be, but somehow Stiles doubted it.

…

Stiles drove around Beacon Hills aimlessly for about an hour, because even if this thing with Deaton’s friend went south there was no way he was staying in Beacon Hills.  
And he supposed, in some sort of morbid way, he wanted to say goodbye to the town and its inhabitants.

The scenery passed by the window in a mindless blur, the people faring no better, and Stiles’ long fingers drummed impatiently against the steering wheel.

In the back of his head, just at the base of his skull, throbbed the incessant need to leave, to just get away, and Stiles was powerless to resist.

It was just beginning to turn dark when Stiles’ jeep pulled into the driveway of the house. There was another car already there, and Stiles stumbled as he stepped out of the jeep onto the smooth driveway. That car looked really familiar…

His curiousity was sated as he pushed open the front door to the sight of his ex-crush and ex-research partner leaning casually on the counter top, looking stunning as usual in a thigh high black skirt, ankle boots and a red glittering top. Under normal circumstances, Stiles would say as much, lavishing her with compliments if only as a joke, because his infatuation with her had ended months previous. Around the same time his infatuation with the hot, broody Alpha had begun.

Seemed Stiles was eternally cursed to fall for the unattainable, and he had long given up hope on the romantic front. But Lydia had turned out to be a brilliant friend, so at least he could say he had good taste with the first hopeless crush.

Not so much with the second.

Stiles dumped his backpack down on the floor beside the table, ignoring the gaze boring into the side of his skull. He tried for casual and picked up an apple, the deep red of it bringing back memories of blood, but could tell straight off that he had failed miserably.

Giving up all pretence of casualness, Stiles hopped up on the counter and met her gaze. He could remember clearly the conversation he had had with Scott, all those months ago, when Scott had been lamenting having to group date with Jackson and Lydia, and when they had discussed the implications of the phrase ‘hang out’.

Because he and Lydia did hang out now, as platonic as two people can be, and he was, rather ironically in his opinion, pretty much now her ‘gay best friend’, like he had said back when.

Oh, the irony.

“What do you want, Lydia?” he demanded bluntly, tried and sore and wanting to crawl into bed. He fingered the mountain ash burning a hole in his pocket, and toyed momentarily with the idea of flinging some at her, but she wasn’t a wolf, so it probably wouldn’t work.

She was a banshee though, so maybe it would still mess up her head.

Lydia had the gall to look hurt by his question, and Stiles rolled his eyes.

“I came to see you, Stiles.” A pouty smile formed on her face as she spoke, and Stiles shook his head. A year ago he would have done anything to get Lydia to look at him, to speak to him and now that she had all Stiles wanted her to do was go away and let him sleep.

“Stop with the act, Lydia. We both know you’re better than this… façade. You’re intelligent, you’re ambitious, and you can go far in the world. So, again, why are you here?”

Lydia frowned, and just like that the perfect girl everyone saw vanished before his eyes, leaving behind someone who was a little more broken, a little more approachable. A little more, for wont of a better word, human. And it made Stiles smile despite himself.

“Hey, Lyds.” He watched her as she watched him, neither giving an inch. Seconds turned to minutes which turned to seemingly endless hours upon hours.

“How are you, Stiles?” she asked him, eyes searching his for any hint of a lie.

Stiles smirked at her and broke eye contact, biting into the apple a tad more viciously then the situation warranted. “Peachy, Lydia. Ecstatic to finally be free of the pack of mongrels. I mean, the shedding was kind of ridiculous. Not to mention the wet dog smell.”

Stiles scrunched his nose up in mock horror at some imagined smell, but Lydia merely continued staring at him. She stood up from where she was leaning and walked round the table to stand at his side. Reaching a hand out, she clasped his shoulder roughly, voice thick when she finally spoke.

“Don’t do that, Stiles. Don’t hide from me. I know you better than that. Don’t pretend like you’re not hurting when I can see you are.”

Stiles let his head fall forward to his chest, unable to convincingly lie to her like he could to everyone else, even Scott. Her hand tightened around his shoulder, and Stiles gripped it tight with his other hand, needing the purchase it gave him.

“I’m sorry, Stiles.” Lydia murmured into his ear, and he nodded stiffly. She drew her hand loose from his grip and gave him a one-armed hug. Sighing, he relaxed into the embrace, burying his head into her shoulder. God, if one year ago Stiles could see him now…

Stiles took a step back, away from the comfort that only a good friend could provide and back into a place where he could think rationally and not want to dissolve into a million angry tears.

Crap. Distance did nothing. He still wanted to burst into a million angry tears. Or two million.

“So, all messing aside,” Stiles said, and if Lydia noticed the dampness of his eyes she was considerate enough not to mention it, “Why are you here?”

Lydia took a deep breath and swung her legs over a nearby chair, almost knocking it off its legs in the process. She laid her head on her arms and watched him with her head at an angle.

“I think Derek made a mistake.” This was said without a hint of her usual snark, painfully honest and hit Stiles right in the chest. He struggled to take a breath. “I think they are all incredibly stupid to leave you out, and they will all end up dead without you there. I don’t intend to be one of them.”

Her gaze softened on him, and she let compassion soften her features. “Also I would miss you and all your dorkiness.” She took a deep breath again and seemed to visibly brace herself. “I’m going to leave the Pack.”

…

They were right in the middle of watching a movie (The Notebook, because Lydia insisted and Stiles was a masochist) when Deaton called. “It’s Deaton.” He told Lydia, hand over the microphone as he pressed ‘answer’.

“Get some popcorn while you’re up, Stiles! Make it butter!” Lydia yelled over at him as he crossed the sitting room into the kitchen for privacy, not that he didn’t trust Lydia with his life or anything, just because it felt nice to do something normal for once.

Lydia seemed to understand because her tone held no anger, only amusement when he flipped her a one fingered solute.

“Deaton, hey.” Stiles said, and he could hear himself and tell that he sounded a little more like usual then he had earlier, spurred on by Lydia’s company. And popcorn. Because popcorn helps everything.

“Stiles.” Deaton replied, tone as bland and relaxed as Stiles had come to expect from the man. “I got in touch with my friend. She says she is willing to meet you and discuss options, if you want.”

Stiles felt his throat closing up. He had never thought, even for a second if he was honest with himself, that she would actually agree to train him. Had figured best case scenario left him wandering around the continent with his jeep and a shitload of baggage. Not to mention a handgun and wolfsbane laced bullets in case things got interesting.

But this… this was better than he could have dreamed of. “Yeah,” he managed, drawing in long breaths of oxygen into his lungs, “Yeah I would really like that.”

The microwave dinged on the counter with the now finished popcorn and Stiles absentmindedly pulled it out and poured the popcorn into a waiting bowl.  
“Great. If you could stop by tomorrow I’ll tell you everything you need to know.”

In his disbelief, Stiles forgot that Deaton couldn’t actually see him through the phone, instead nodding numbly. “Sure,” he stuttered out when the silence had grown too loaded and painful between them, and as soon as he realised he hadn’t answered Deaton’s not-request yet.

The dial tone signalled the end of the call, and Stiles gently placed the cell face down on the table before somehow making his way back into the sitting room.

“Well?” Lydia asked, not taking her eyes of the screen. It took her a few nano-seconds to sense something wrong, and then her gaze flicked to his smoothly.

“She agreed to train me.” Stiles mumbled only half coherently, and Lydia immediately knew what he was talking about, having been filled in over coffee before the movie.

She took stock of his shell-shocked expression, the glaze over his eyes, and pushed him down to the couch. Placing her feet in his lap imperiously, Stiles started rubbing them automatically. His expression was torn between wary excitement, and devastating loss. Lydia could sympathise.

“Hey,” she called to him, and he lifted his still glazed over eyes to hers. “This is good. This is good, Stiles. You can learn more about your Spark, can learn magic. I’m jealous.”  
Stiles let out a huff of a laugh, and his eyes brightened. Yes, this was a good thing, Lydia thought as Sties’ face filled with the previously missing excitement that came from learning more about himself, it was just a pity Derek had to be such a monumental asshole for it to happen.

Fingers moving consciously now, Lydia suppressed a groan as he dug gently into the arch of her foot. Stiles gave the best massages of anyone, anywhere. The pack had been beyond stupid to give him up just because they thought he was powerless. In truth, he was far from it.

Lydia was pleasantly surprised when she stumbled upon the realisation that she was going to miss him. All his clumsy, dorky, nerdy self, that she had been too self-obsessed to value back before the supernatural in Beacon Hills brought them together.

If Stiles was straight, Lydia decided, he would have made the perfect boyfriend. As it was, Lydia felt only derision for the person Stiles had confessed to having feelings for. If Derek gave up the chance at this with Stiles, she thought to herself, all because he was human, then he didn’t deserve Stiles in the first place. Seemed Stiles had a habit of falling in love with those sort of people, she mused.

Stiles smiled at her from the other side of the couch, his hands still doing amazing things to the aches and pains that were caused by killer heels. Yes, Lydia decided as she let her head fall back onto the couch cushions, The Notebook running forgotten in the background, she was going to miss Stiles.

…

Stiles Stilinski left Beacon Hills at the end of Sophomore Year.

The only people who knew where a local vet named Deaton, a young red-headed banshee by the name of Lydia Martin, and Stiles’ own father.

It took the local werewolf pack three days to notice his absence, and they started to search, led by the Alpha, Derek Hale, and his second, Scott Mc Call.

When they found no sign of him, they brought the case to the Chief of Police, also Stiles’ father, who told them in no uncertain terms that Stiles had left, and that they were to leave  
him alone.

Lydia Martin stayed with the Pack under the request of Stiles himself, but she never mentioned her involvement in Stiles’ abrupt departure to anyone but the Sheriff.

Beacon Hills experienced a drastic increase in supernatural activity a few weeks after Stiles’ departure from the town, but, just as drastically, the number was lowered a mere week later.

The local wolf pack suffered no casualties.

A rumour began to spread all across the world in supernatural communities of a person that went by the name of ‘Red Hood’ who had single-handedly wiped out a coven of murderous witches.

More rumours were passed from mouth to mouth of the mysterious ‘Red Hood’ who was, if the rumours were to be believed, more powerful than anyone the Supernatural  
Community had ever seen.

A year passed since the disappearance of one Stiles Stilinski, and he still did not return.

Members of the local wolf pack finished junior year with only four breakdowns and one almost-murder. It was a new record.

The Red Hood used a spell to banish a demon back to hell, wiping out an entire army of stolen souls as he did so.

The Beacon Hills pack were attacked by a group of pixies a week before the start of Senior Year. None were lost in the attack, but they were sorely outnumbered and suffered grave injuries.

The Pack Second, Scott Mc Call, went to the local vet Deaton for assistance, who mentioned that he had an old friend who owed him a favour.

The Beacon Hills pack were informed that he had asked the infamous Red Hood for assistance, and all of them were shocked, excluding one banshee, who disappeared to contact a friend.

The Red Hood paused outside of the town known as Beacon Hills before making his way to the agreed upon meeting place.

Stiles Stilinski had returned to Beacon Hills.


	2. I am 99% sure all werewolves have fleas. Yeah, even you Scott. No don't give me those puppy dog eyes, I'm mad at you.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles is back in Beacon Hills, no longer the same boy who left. Derek and the pack realise their mistake, helped along by Lydia. Who is really very scary, ask anyone.

Derek pulled the jacket tighter around himself as he stepped out of the car onto the sidewalk. A revving engine behind him drew his attention to the bigger vehicle that held the rest of his pack, all of them looking slightly worse for wear with bleary eyes from tiredness and fading flashes of pain.

Derek cursed the pixies again. For creatures no bigger than his thumb, they were downright vicious. His ribs creaked in protest at the movement which was walking and Derek barely withheld a groan.

Werewolf healing or no, it took longer than a day to heal from numerous bites and a couple of broken ribs.

No one in the pack had fared much better, except for Lydia who seemed to never get hurt, at least not by anything supernatural.

The Hale house still had the dent in the wall from when she had broken her ankle on ice and gotten pissed off with something Jackson had said to her. She had a mean right hook, and the wall had suffered the extent of her wrath.

Not that it hadn’t been hilarious for the Betas.

At that very moment, Lydia herself hopped gracefully, because if such a thing was even possible Lydia Martin would be the one to do it, down from the passenger side door and landed gently on the pavement.

She was quickly followed by Jackson, who had grown quiet and less arrogant in the months since… the thing…., and Allison. Both with whom she linked arms and then proceeded to strut towards the building like she owned the place.

Well, as the pack’s resident magic-wielder, she had more connections to it than the rest of them, so Derek supposed she kind of did.

Scott rushed out of the car after Allison tripping over his feet and looking like a lost puppy, a comparison that brought no end of amusement to the rest of the pack at regular intervals, and behind him, at a much more reasonable pace, Isaac, Boyd and Erica.

Derek gazed around at the entire pack, at his pack, and felt the familiar twinge of longing.

Shoving it down to the deepest realms of his psyche, where it belonged, he made his way into the vet’s building like they all weren’t silently thinking of their missing pack-mate. 

Who Derek had kicked out. For all the wrong reasons.

The pain was common enough now, melded with the memories of sarcasm and long agile fingers, but it had never gotten easier to bear.

If anything, it had only served as a reminder of what he had lost, of what he had driven away.

But it had had to be done. Derek refused to lose someone else.

The bell over the door clanged their arrival, and they were soon greeted by Deaton, with his trademark I-know-more-than-you-but-won’t-tell-you-so-there smile. Maybe Derek was just still bitter from the pixie fiasco.

Meh, he probably was.

They had come a long way from that first meeting where Derek tied him to a chair and knocked him out cold, but Derek still didn’t trust the vet as far as he could throw him. 

“Derek.” The vet greeted him, scrabbling with something behind his back, “Good to see you.”

Derek felt his eyebrows scrunch up on his forehead. Deaton was acting very suspicious for someone who usually had so much control over their body language.

As if hearing that loose mental remark, Deaton’s body relaxed marginally, his face smoothing into an expression of slightly amused tranquillity. Nothing new here, it seemed to say.

Gesturing the pack forward with his hand, Derek made his way to the nearest wall and leaned against it, arms folded up on his chest and muscles bunched tight.

“So were you able to get in contact with your friend?” Scott asked eagerly, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. He was sitting on a plain metal chair that seemed to appear from nowhere, and Derek internally sighed at his eagerness. Subtlety or patience never had been Scott’s strong suit.

Deaton only nodded, before sharing a rushed look with Lydia that made Derek perk forward in suppressed interest. There was something else going on here, he thought to himself.

“Yes. I believe you have heard of him. The Red Hood.” It wasn’t a question, and Derek’s angry jolt from the wall was hidden by the thump of Scott promptly falling off his chair.

“The Red Hood?” Scott gaped up at them from his place on the floor, limbs steady as he held himself up from the ground. “You… how do you…. What?”

Derek frowned as he stared down at him, anger momentarily forgotten. For a werewolf, Scott Mc Call was exceptionally clumsy when not fighting. Then again, Scott had been bitten, not born like Derek, and still suffered with the fact that he was what some people considered ‘a monster’.

So there was that.

In a rare feeling of almost guilt that Derek was in no mood to examine, he bent down and offered a hand to his second. With only a second of hesitation, a huge improvement of 

Scott’s general attitude towards him, Scott clasped his wrist wordlessly, a smile of gratitude on his face that almost reached his eyes. Progress.

He easily lifted Scott up and set him with the pack, all sporting matching forehead creases and crossed arms. All except Lydia, apparently, who was practically vibrating with barely restrained excitement.

Derek raised one eyebrow at her in silent question and she shrugged, unrepentant.

Deaton lay the cell phone in his hands down on the table, what he had obviously been fiddling with when Derek had come in, and faced them with a determined set in his shoulders.

“Yes, the Red Hood. Let’s just say he owed me a favour, and I cashed in. He should be here in,” Deaton glanced at his wrist as if his mind was miles away, and it was only then that   
Derek noticed that 1; Deaton wasn’t wearing a watch, and 2; He was acting different, movements jerky and uncoordinated, as if nervous.

That was a shock all on its own, and coupled with the light blush that crossed the man’s cheeks when he realised his watchlessness, it put Derek on edge.

Correcting his mistake hastily, Deaton glanced at the clock on the wall and muttered something under his breath before returning his gaze to the wolves. “Five minutes.”

Derek would have had to be human, deaf and blind to not notice the uptake in Lydia’s pulse, followed by her rushed retreat with only a quiet murmured, “I need to go make a phone call.”

Around him, the pack exploded excitedly, sharing rumours of the mysterious mage’s powers and tales of his achievements, while Derek blocked them all out in favour of listening in to Lydia’s phone call.

He had never claimed to have high morals, and anything that got his Beta all wound up was worth investigating.

The dial tone rang for a few seconds in the other room, and then, “Hey S!”

Derek missed the response on the other end, but Lydia obviously didn’t if her laugh was anything to go by. She sounded genuinely happy, Derek thought to himself somewhat confusedly, happier than she had sounded around the pack in months.

“Yeah well there’s a bunch of werewolves outside the door that are PROBABLY EAVESDROPPING LIKE THE DOGS THEY ARE!”

The last part was yelled out the door, and Derek looked up from where he had been glaring at the floor, only to see the abashed faces of his pack, who had evidently stopped conversing among themselves about the mage’s arrival as soon as Lydia had picked up the phone to call some mysterious friend.

No one ever claimed werewolves weren’t nosy bastards. And if they had, they’d have been wrong.

Judging by the determined but also kind of nauseous expressions on his pack mates’ faces, they were going to risk the banshee’s wrath and listen into the phone call even after being called out on it, probably from a mix of genuine concern and unwavering nosiness.

While Derek was proud of how his Betas had acclimated to wolf life, they were all still a bunch of teenagers. Teenagers who dealt with all the creatures that went bump in the night and a few that didn’t, perhaps, but still.

They worried about things like grades, and Senior Year, and Relationships with a capital R, and, Derek shuddered in his head, Prom.

His own Prom had been less than happy, but very, very memorable. It had been on the anniversary of the fire, he had been uncontrolled, explosive, dangerous. Derek still had no clue why Laura thought it would be a good idea for him to ‘distract himself’ with prom, but it’s not like he could just ring her up and ask or anything. 

He had showed up in loose-fitting jeans and a cheap suit jacket, drank a lot more alcohol than advisable if you didn’t want your liver to fail, but was still only pleasantly buzzed when the trouble started. A lot of pitying looks and one snide remark later there was a guy in the hospital and Laura was beyond mad at him.

People don’t like being reminded of sad things, of death or loss or pain, and that was basically all Derek had felt for his last few years of high school. And guilt. Endless guilt.

He had barely even cared that the principal was mad at him, hadn’t cared that he was given multiple detentions that extended to the end of the school year, because school felt so superficial and pointless to him then. But Derek supposed his Betas still believed school was important. And not to forget the mess that was ‘social skills’.

Like Derek had any.

It took Derek a few more comments of a one-sided conversation from Lydia before he realised that the person she was talking to must have spelled their phone with the silence spell, which made it impossible to hear who was on the other end of a call, and vice versa.

Derek had to admit, he was reluctantly impressed. Very reluctantly.

It took his pack mates a little longer to realise, and they all looked faintly disappointed when they did. Damn nosy werewolves, Derek thought sarcastically to himself, since the person he usually talked sarcasm with had been absent from his life for over a year now.

Because Derek had chosen to let him go.

Sometimes, in the privacy of his own head, Derek wondered if that had been more for his own good than Stiles’.

“Okay. Yeah. Of course!” Lydia laughed again, a light-hearted, happy sound that made Derek’s chest ache, but that pulled his mind away from the more dangerous places. “Right. See you soon!” There was a pause, and when Lydia spoke again her voice was softer, more meaningful. “Love you too, you big softie. Alright, I know. You’re one to talk! Okay, okay. Bye.”

The phone call ended abruptly then, and seconds later Lydia came strolling out of the back office, phone in hand, expression somewhere between highly amused and deeply irritated. It wasn’t an unfamiliar look on the red head’s face.

The Betas immediately scrambled to make it look like they hadn’t just been listening intently into her private conversation, but Derek didn’t even bother trying to hide it.

Lydia shot them a look that proclaimed them idiots, a sentiment Derek could get on board with 99% of the time, before turning to face him, an eyebrow raised.

“Is there no such thing as privacy anymore?” She asked, feigning outrage. Then again, she might not have been feigning it. The pack had had to get used to the lack of privacy relatively quickly when practically everyone had super hearing and reflexes, and Derek would be the first to admit there were a couple of awkward breakfasts after people heard things they probably shouldn't have heard, or seen things they definitely shouldn't have seen (the bathroom lock was no match for sleepy werewolf strength to everyone's dismay), but the girls perhaps the least. It was very, very quickly understood that all three of them had weapons hidden in multiple places around their persons and barging in on them showering by accident would get you a very thorough example of how well they could handle them.

Actually, the first rule of pack life was basically if any of the female pack members tell you to do something, either do it or expect pain. Allison was fond of arrows (obviously), Erica her claws and Lydia anything she could cook up in a lab (the list was shockingly numerous) thrown at you or hidden somewhere you would least expect it.

Their significant others could testify to this.

Derek only looked at Lydia in the face of her probably feigned outrage with what his pack had fondly named the ‘Derek Hale look of infinite boredom and oh-really-just-how-stupid-do-you-think-I-am’ glance. It was funny how they forget he could actually hear them from another room.

Come to think of it, it had been Stiles who named that look. As well at 17 others. He made a chart.

Derek’s heart hurt.

“Lydia.” Was all Derek said to her, and they both stood in stand-off without speaking for a few tense, awkward seconds as if sizing each other up, before Scott broke the silence that was beginning to become uncomfortable.

“Guys, there’s a new car outside!” Instantaneously, the atmosphere shifted into one of anticipation, and Derek could tell his Betas were resisting the urge to run to the window like little kids in the hopes they could catch a glimpse of the infamous magic user.

Only pride and a twisted sense of fear kept them in place, lounging about the reception, the only signs of their unease their fast beating hearts and clenched fists.

When there was no movement outside, they all glanced to Deaton in confusion, but the old emissary only smiled benignly at them.

A loud thump drew their attention to the back room, and werewolf senses went off like copper wires in a thunder storm, because the scent that now filled the small room was electric.

It smelled of electricity, and fireworks, and, somehow, towering waves of turquoise ocean that broke the shoreline.

Beneath all that, however, beneath the unique taste of magic that clung to all those who dabbled in it, the scent was as familiar to Derek as his own, and made him freeze in place.

This was why, when Stiles Stilinski appeared in the doorway, hands loose and open at his side, Derek was the only one who didn’t outwardly react.

Scott promptly fell over again.

 

…

 

Stiles had changed. He wasn’t the same human boy who left Beacon Hills with a broken heart and a body of scars, okay?

He had learned, and grew, and became more powerful than he had ever dreamed of being, and it was an improvement.

This didn’t change the fact that Stiles was more nervous than he had been when he took down his first Demon.

Which made no sense, because demon-killing? Obviously much more scary than returning to your old town at the request of your old pack who kicked you out. Who, incidentally, didn’t know your actual identity other than a cheesy nickname.

Stiles’ fingers drummed on the steering wheel of his new car, reminiscent of that evening a year and a bit ago before his entire life and view of himself changed.

Okay, he was adult enough to admit he was nervous. That was common enough though, right? Stiles was often nervous. Nervous was like his secondary state of being. Talking to the pretty girl who worked at the café down from where he stored his jeep made him nervous, as did talking the equally as pretty boy that delivered his pizza on Wednesdays and alternate Fridays. He had just gotten much better at hiding it. When he wasn’t around werewolves that could sense all his emotions, Stiles found out he actually had a pretty good poker face.

He was still pissed as hell at the pack, both for kicking him out in the first place and for then being annoyed that he had left (No one ever claimed werewolves were logical, in fact the exact opposite was often truth), but there was also that traitorous little voice in the back of his head that wanted them to see how he had changed, that wanted, curse his heart, respect from the people he had once considered family. Stiles hated that little voice.

At least Lydia had understood his reasons for leaving. Stiles’ heart warmed at the mention of his best friend, who had been with him digitally through it all.

The call from her a few minutes ago had helped ease the nerves, and the ache in his heart that had sprung on him as it always did when he thought of Beacon Hills. Now that he was back it was a million times worse.

Lydia had been the one who picked up his phone calls at 3 a.m., who skyped with him whenever he needed a pick me up, and who had almost single-handedly created his entire reputation.

The truth was, brace yourselves, Stiles didn’t in fact bathe in the blood of his enemies.

And it wasn’t like he resisted the urge out of some idiotic moral stand or anything either, it was simply that he had no inclination to.

But tales of his savageness were good for business, so Lydia was sure to always extend the truth a little. Or a lot, depending on which tale you ask about.

And it wasn’t like Stiles wasn’t super powerful or anything, he was, it was just that he was also… Stiles, and blood was a bitch to get out of clothes.

I guess I could always bathe naked, Stiles mused, a sure sign that his nerves were getting the better of him.

And here’s the thing; Stiles liked being the Red Hood. Liked the sense of purpose it gave him. He was more confident and comfortable in his own skin now than he had ever been, and that was always a good thing.

But, and here was the clincher, he was also still that hyperactive spaz with too short an attention span and a tendency for sarcastic replies.

It was just now he could back that up with a fistful of magic and advanced weapons training.

Turns out people were a lot less likely to make fun of you with those things on your side.

He didn’t need anybody’s help, not that he had ever been very good at accepting it, and he hadn’t for months now.

Nor did he need anybody’s approval. When Stiles looked in the mirror, he saw someone he could be proud of, someone he was proud of. It had taken months of vigorous, often painful training to get to where he was now, but Stiles wouldn’t change any of it for anything in the world.

He had earned his powers in sweat, blood and tears, and it didn’t matter what some arrogant, self-righteous, pompous werewolves thought.

He was still nervous though.

Stiles sighed as he pulled into the clinic, the runes on his skin glowing in time with the beating of his overactive heart, but a spell he had cast earlier hid his arrival from the pack.

He observed them through the wide, glass window, eyes flicking over Allison, Boyd, Erica and Isaac, taking them in one by one. They all seemed relatively healthy, if not a bit   
miserable, but Stiles attributed it to the pixie fight and subsequent injuries more than anything else.

Almost against his will, Stiles’ gaze focused on Scott, his ex-best friend. Did he still have a penchant for trouble? Still have a hard time controlling the wolf?

Lydia had kept him informed on pack matters, but it was very different hearing about the trials of the pack second hand and experiencing them yourself.

And then there was Derek. Sourwolf. Alpha. Otherwise known as Stiles’ ex-crush. He still looked as brooding, and naturally miserable, as always, as if someone had just kicked his favourite puppy.

Turns out the tall, dark and silent guys were his type, because Stiles could count on one hand the guys he had hooked up while away with that didn’t fit that stereotype. Wait, no, he needed two hands.

He had forgotten Mark.

Closing his eyes, Stiles absorbed the magic hiding him from sight back inside his body and used it to transport himself outside the back door.

He would have transported the whole way, but it took a lot more energy to get from England to America then it did a few dozen metres.

He had been in England recovering from a… particularly taxing spell. It completely wasn’t his fault that while he was there, (under strict instructions from a close friend to ‘relax and recuperate or so help me Stiles I will glue you to a bed’ to which Stiles had replied ‘Kinky, but not objectionable’ because he was just that sort of person) he had been viciously accosted by a tribe of flesh-eating mummies.

What, did you think Egypt was the only place with those fashion-behind lumps of clay? Turns out they, or more accurately the complete idiot controlling them, liked the wet, rainy climate of Britain.

Idiot because, as everyone with any brains knows, mummies bandages dissolve in water. They had been little puddles of lumpy mud after the first shower. Stiles had gotten   
soaked, but it was well worth it to see the look of dejected betrayal on the dude’s face. As if the sky had personally offended him.

In a way, Stiles guessed it had.

Mummies and stupid evil doers aside, (like seriously, it made Stiles almost yearn for some semi intelligent people to fight, what happened to all the good sci-fi villains, people? Was there no standard for evil anymore?) Stiles had to take a brief pause outside the locked door, resting his head on the cool metal before gathering what was left of his strength and sweeping in dramatically.

What? It had been a very taxing spell, and it had only been a week since then. Sometimes simple dramatics were the best way to go.

Especially when dealing with situations like this. Then again, there were no situations like this. The impossibility of preparation was making Stiles' skin crawl.

He could sense all the wolves with his magic, the stretching of mental feelers out in exploration like the burn of a well-used muscle.

Even though his magic had only barely been a spark the last time he saw any of them, the particular twinge of their life lights were ones he could pick up anywhere. Even Derek.

Especially Derek.

Stiles ruined his no-nonsense-take-no-prisoners arrival when the first thing he put his hand on clanged to the ground. He barely restrained a sigh.

Doesn’t matter how many weapons he had mastered, or how graceful (if other people’s accounts were to be believed) he was while fighting, his hand still managed to find the least stable things in the area to brush on when he was caught off guard.

And Stiles was very caught off guard, because the pack bond that had broken when he left Beacon Hills was springing back into place, and Stiles was lucky he had a lot of experience dealing with pain because he was sure he would have groaned aloud otherwise.

Maybe ‘lucky’ wasn’t the right word.

For now it seemed to only be affecting his end, and Stiles silently pleaded that it would stay that way. He really was not interested in explaining to a bunch of pissed off werewolves how that pesky pack bond managed to tie them together without either party’s permission. Sometimes Stiles was sure his magic was out to get him. Which would be funny happening to anyone else, but to himself? Not so much.

Giving up all hopes of a smooth entry, Stiles wrapped himself with a veritable cocoon of magic, forcing the seeking tendrils of the bond down, beneath layer after layer of thick, immovable power.

As soon as he was out of town he’d crush it like he had the first time. It had taken him two whole weeks and a lot of writhing in pain, but he had managed it. Damn it, he fucking knew coming back to Beacon Hills was a bad idea.

But the protective boundary he had cast around the town had broken, so it left Stiles stuck there until he could get it back online.

Stepping into a room with a bunched of shocked werewolves, and a huntress who still carried loaded weapons, was not his idea of fun.

This was going to take forever. Stiles just knew it.

 

…

 

The room was eerily silent for a few moments, the shocked faces of the pack and uneven breaths the only indicators that something was amiss.

Stiles was standing confidently in the back of the room, face open but blank, limbs no longer twitching with frantic energy that needed to be spent.

Derek found that he missed it.

He was wearing clothes so unlike Stiles that it gave Derek pause, stopped him from demanding an explanation as to where he had been the last year, and Derek had to remind the pacing animal inside him that he had no right to any information from Stiles. All he received in response was a growl.

Black leather skinny jeans were accompanied by a red hoodie, the red hoodie, Derek realised with a jolt, the one that had earned him the nickname in the first place, and Derek didn’t know what to make of the fact that it was the same one he had been wearing the last time he had seen him.

His ears were pierced now, and a matching set of black runes hung from them, and an insane, reckless part of Derek itched to touch them.

Two black boots completed the ensemble, and, loath as he was to admit it, the new look suited Stiles. He had always been fire in human form, and now the whole world could see it.

Derek was nowhere near ready to admit to the pang of jealousy that thought caused him.

“St... Stiles?!” Scott’s shocked voice broke the silence, the small scrape of his clothes on the linoleum floor seemingly the sign everyone was waiting for that this, Stiles, wasn’t some sort of dream.

Or nightmare, depending on who you were asking.

Lydia was the first to move, bounding up to Stiles with a wide grin and outstretched arms.

Derek could see comprehension dawn on the pack when the hug they shared was one speaking of a lot more friendship then people who hadn’t spoken in over a year.

Derek was pretty sure he wasn’t the only one feeling betrayed then.

The two eventually stopped hugging, but Stiles swung a casual arm around her shoulders instead, easy contact that seemed to comfort them both, and faced Deaton, ignoring the rest of them in a way Derek could only assume was intentional.

“Pixies?” He asked once, and Deaton nodded his head, clarifying unnecessarily. Even his voice had changed, becoming deeper, more musical, as if you could hear whispered Latin spells and chants behind every word. It was unsettling, to say the least.

“A whole tribe.”

Stiles frowned, deep in thought, then shook it away with a physical roll of his shoulders. The shoulders that were nearly as broad as Derek’s own, and pressed tightly against the fabric in a way that could be called obscene.

He didn’t look like a 17 year old, or an 18 year old, or even a 19 year old. If anything, he looked ageless, timeless, as if someone had taken an old soul and shoved it into a young body then left it for a few decades. Stiles had always looked something like that, but it had never been as blatantly obvious as it was then. 

Stiles pressed a quick kiss to the side of Lydia’s head, before lifting his arm from her shoulders so she could step back, his face as emotionless as Deaton’s when he faced them.

When Stiles finally faced them properly, Derek wasn’t the only one who took a shocked inhale. 

His eyes were glowing.

They weren’t even glowing like werewolves’ eyes do, instead their natural colour, that Derek would swear to his grave he didn’t remember in embarrassing detail even after all that time, seemed brighter, as if someone was holding a torch to them from the inside of his head.

It was amazing, and equally as terrifying.

“How did you… what are … why… what?” Came Scott’s indignant questions, his voice reaching a pitch that made all the werewolves in the room grimace. Shooting them an apologetic look, he tried to lower it to a more acceptable tone, but failed miserably.

In fairness, and in Scott’s defence, it wasn’t every day that your long lost best friend came back changed enough to basically be a new person.

“You’re the Red Hood?” He squeaked out finally, and Allison patted Scott’s hand in pride that he had managed a complete sentence, but Stiles himself only smiled derisively.

With a dangerously mocking half bow, Stiles clasped his hand to his chest, sleeve slipping down just enough for Derek to see a black tendril etched on his skin that almost seemed to be searching for something.

Before he could do much more than notice it however, Stiles pulled his sleeve down in a way that made it seem non-intentional. Derek knew better.

“The Red Hood, at your request.” It seemed sarcasm was still Stiles’ second language, no matter what happened. It came as a relief to hear something so familiar.

Derek took a quiet moment to register all the changes in Stiles. The more obvious ones, like the rod straight spine and new casualness in the way he held his body, as well as the power in the muscles that were hid so easily behind the loose fitting hoodie, were all physical, but Derek had spent the better part of a year obsessing over the human, and that wasn’t all he noticed.

He saw the dark shadows that coloured under his eyes, the almost-bruises that spoke of too many late nights and early mornings, saw the faded red marks on the visible skin as if burned, and the tousled hair from fingers running through it.

Noticed the strong demeanour of someplace between confidence and arrogance, the upward tilt of his lips, the stance his body had taken unconsciously as if prepped for a fight.

His hand unknowingly reaching for his thigh seeking reassurance of the weapons there, an action his body was so used to, so comfortable with, that it made Derek see red.

This Stiles was danger and magic and electricity, and the easy way with which he hid his emotions made Derek want to punch something until it stopped moving. The irony of the fact that he had caused that change was not lost on him.

Stiles turned to him then, one eyebrow raised, and Derek was thrown back violently into a memory of Stiles complaining about how often he did that, telling him it made him look ‘like he never had any emotions other than boredom or condescension’. Looking at the calmness of Stiles’ pale face, the lack of any emotion distinguishable or note-worthy, Derek silently agreed with him.

“Where did they assault you?” Derek bristled at the implication behind the question, and the slightest hint of a smirk behind Stiles’ professional façade.

Granted, the idea of a couple of pixies taking down a pack of werewolves was objectively funny, but the pain in his ribs said otherwise.

And it hadn’t just been a couple. It had been at least a hundred of the demon bugs. He was beyond tempted to say as much, but doubted it would actually do much good except to amuse Stiles further.

“The woods.” At Stiles’ completely unimpressed look, Derek gave in. “About a mile from the main road, 20 minutes by foot from the town.”

Stiles snorted at his unwillingness to provide information before absentmindedly swiping a finger under his sleeve. Derek had no doubt that he was tracing the design he had seen earlier, the design which looked suspiciously like a tattoo.

But it wasn’t his place to ask.

No matter how much he wanted to.

Stiles suddenly clapped his hands together, and the Betas jumped in shock from the echo of it.

“I’ll take care of it. Stay out of the woods ‘til I contact you.”

With a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, Stiles blew a one-handed kiss at Lydia before vanishing. Literally. One second he was standing in front of them, the next he was gone.

Derek pushed himself off of the wall he had been subconsciously slouching against, body taunt with adrenaline.

The squeal of tires outside the clinic drew his attention, and he could just see the back of a sleek, navy car as it drove away.

So at least Stiles hadn’t been stolen by some magic-wielding witch with a death wish. Small mercies.

Jackson was, surprisingly, the first one to break the silence. “Was he… Did that just happen?”

Isaac looked like he was going to be sick, so like the way he had looked the last time they all shared a room, when Derek had decided that for his own good Stiles had to stay away.

Erica looked torn between running after Stiles begging his forgiveness or slapping him for leaving. Probably both, in that order.

Boyd, in a shocking turn of events, looked genuinely sad, a touch guilty, and very wistful. It was more emotion then Derek had ever managed to get out of him, even when he offered him the bite.

How was it that Stiles knew and affected his Betas more than Derek did even though he hadn’t seen them in a year? He had more influence over them than anybody else. And that was definitely not jealousy that Derek was feeling. Definitely.

Scott was looking dazed and anxious, a combination that was never a good sign. Derek silently prayed Scott wouldn’t wolf out in the middle of the clinic.

At least Allison was here to calm him down. The last time Scott had gotten out of control and feral a couple of trees got destroyed and they almost got yelled at by some environmentalist activists. 

The Sheriff had given Derek his look after he had growled at them, but, honestly, what did he expect Derek to do?

Allison had taken an hour to arrive at the scene, but luckily just hearing her voice and heartbeat through the phone calmed Scott enough that all he did was lie down on the ground and whimper pathetically.

Teenagers and their love lives. It gave Derek a headache more often than not just thinking about it, never mind living it or feeling it second hand through the pack bond.

Sometimes he questioned his wisdom in turning a bunch of teenagers. He had forgotten the drama that was their entire lives. Everything was the end of the world with high schoolers.

All it did was make Derek want to roll his eyes.

Lydia cleared her throat in the doorway, looking over from where she had been silently communicating via facial expressions and hand gestures with the vet, before smirking at them.

“So are we just going to stand here like idiots or are we going to move anytime soon?”

Almost as one the pack turned to face her, expressions ranging from intrigued and curious, to suspicious and betrayed. The latter featured more on Scott and the Betas, while the former was entertained by Allison and Jackson. Derek kept his face deliberately blank.

“You knew?!” That was Scott, face twisted into a mask of barely concealed anger at the deception. Erica and Isaac followed his example, focusing accusing eyes on Lydia.

She just rolled her eyes. “Yes, I knew. Now are we going to go, because hanging out in an animal clinic is not my idea of a good time.” A quick glance over to where the vet stood. “No offense, Dr. Deaton.”

The vet smiled at her warmly and tilted his head. “None taken, Lydia.”

Scott suddenly crashed his hand against the floor, the force pushing him up onto his knees and glared at them all in turn. “NO! No one is going anywhere until I find out why Lydia knew my best friend was leaving, why she probably knew where he has been for the past year, and how the hell Stiles, clumsy, ADHD Stiles, managed to become one of the most feared mages in all of history!”

Lydia’s smirk changed into an angry one in the blink of an eye, and she marched over to Scott, anger radiating from every pore. Despite himself, Scott flinched back a little.

They all were shocked back into freezing for the second time when Lydia slapped him. Painfully, hard, and right across his cheek. The sound of it made Isaac flinch.

With one sharp fingernail digging into his chest, Lydia hissed, “You don’t get to make demands of anyone Scott Mc Call, not me, and certainly not Stiles. You didn’t care enough to say anything when you all left Stiles on his own, and it wasn’t until he left that you started noticing him again. You are like a toddler who drops a toy and then cries when someone else picks it up. You are pathetic.”

Lydia turned ice-cold eyes to them, her glare harsher than wolfsbane bullets in its intensity.

“You are all pathetic. Stiles saved your lives, he made you a pack, he helped you, befriended you, cared for you. And you kick him out because of something that is both out of his control and his greatest strength. Then you have a hissy fit like a bunch of little kids because he comes back different. The only fucking reason I’m still in this pack is because Stiles asked me to be. And he asked me to be because he cared for me and my safety more than his pride. I left, all right, I left the pack the same day you choose to kick him out. So you all can take your preconceived notions on what you have a right to demand of either of us and you can shove it up your ass before Stiles does it for you. And if he doesn’t, I will.”

The door slammed behind her, her departure accompanied by several seconds of tense shock. Deaton was mixing something on the counter but he spared a second to glance at them, disapproval etched in every wrinkle of his face.

“Not that it’s any of my business,” he said genially, “But I do agree with her.”

With that he shooed them with his hands out the door, bell ringing overhead. They stood in a group on the sidewalk, no sign of either Stiles of Lydia apart from lingering scents of thunderstorms and strawberries respectively.

Boyd stood deadly still and muttered, “Am I the only one feeling ashamed, guilty and like a really, really horrible friend?”

Everyone shook their heads in unison as if puppets being controlled. Derek felt the beginnings of nausea stir in his gut as the full ramifications of what they had done hit him.

The drive back to the Hale house passed in silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter came out much different than I expected it to, but... better?... than I hoped. With the way I was writing it and the way I want the story to go this felt more right. But I guess I'll have to wait and see!  
> So it turns out Derek kicked Stiles out for his own protection, though the exact reason is still a mystery, and the pack went along with it because they all love Stiles and didn't want to see him hurt. Lydia didn't either, but she was the only one who didn't see him as a fragile human, again, for reasons that are yet unknown.  
> I put in that bit with Stiles in the middle so you guys could see his mindset going back to Beacon Hills, and also because I'm kinda sorta expecting him to be a bit of a jerk to them for a while (he has earned it!) and this way no one will hate him! Two birds one stone.  
> This is completely un beta'd so any and all mistakes are my own.
> 
> Also, amazing response to the first chapter! Mind is blown, guys! Thank you all so much, you have made my year!  
> I'm going to get at least one chapter done a week, but other than that schedule will be all over the place and I'm really sorry for that.
> 
> Hope you liked it so far, so please leave a comment and tell me!  
> Later!


	3. I like pixies. I do! They're awesome, they can fly, their wings make that musical fluttering sound. What's not to like? Oh yeah, I guess they did beat you guys up pretty bad... Did I say like? I meant, I love pixies.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles makes friends with some pixies, Latin is spoken, and the pack order crazy amounts of pizza. Plus no one is more surprised than Derek himself when he ends up doing a bit of pixie research.

The pack made a unanimous decision without speaking to spend the night at the Hale house, each person or couple disappearing into their respective rooms as the night continued.

 

By 1 o’clock, Derek was the only one still up.

 

Sleep eluded him, so he made his way to the sitting room and sat on the armchair in the darkness, thinking.

 

It was funny really. In trying to protect Stiles, he had somehow managed to put him under more danger. It seemed like he did everything wrong, no matter how hard he tried or what he did. Maybe he was just cursed.

 

The darkness pressed down on him, making him doubt and second guess every decision he had ever made.

 

It wasn’t even five minutes later that Scott showed up, trailed for once by Allison rather than the other way around. They said nothing, just fell down onto the couch, knees touching, heads resting on each other’s shoulders in a sickeningly cute display. It comforted Derek in a more than logical way, knowing his pack was right there.

 

A few minutes later came Jackson, followed by Isaac, both of whom sat down on the wooden floor in silence and laid their heads on the couch cushions.

 

The love seat was soon occupied by Erica and Boyd, but still no one said anything. The night passed like that, a pack coming together to silently remember everything that had happened, everything they had done.

 

By morning a plan of action had been decided, all without any words needed or spoken. The pack bond grew stronger and more obvious, the wears and tears from the past year and few months beginning to be smoothed over. Seemed Stiles always had that effect on his pack, Derek thought as pack mates stretched their stiff limbs around him, he pulled them all together before to make them work as a group and now he was doing it again, without even being present.

 

With Stiles in possession of magic, he was always going to be in the line of fire. That fact had to be accepted before anything else could be done. The best way to protect him was to give him back up, in the form of a pack. Derek wondered how he ever could have thought, for even a second, that Stiles would do anything other than find a way to become stronger than all of them.

 

When Stiles felt something was right, didn’t matter the consequences to him as long as his friends and family were safe. It was an admirable trait, one Derek could empathise with, but that made him nearly impossible to protect.

 

He had no survival instinct, not when it involved someone else's safety, someone he loved, and, really, it had left Derek no choice. Or at least, that was the thought he comforted himself with on the nights Stiles’ absence had stretched the pack bond to its limit.

 

The first sound of the morning, the metallic twang of the industrial sized toaster as it popped, seemed to shake everyone out of that semi-conscious zone people disappear to after a long night of not sleeping. They all had a lot of experience with that. None more so than Derek.

 

The kitchen was soon filled with typical morning sights and smells, and to werewolves those smells were especially potent. It was generally taken in the mornings that the pack stayed over that they all had to fend for themselves where food was involved. Otherwise people just got into fights.

 

Isaac and Derek both lived at the Hale house permanently, and Erica and Boyd lived there about half the time. Jackson, Lydia, Scott and Allison only spent the nights on those evenings after an activity, with Jackson and Lydia telling lies to their parents, and Scott and Allison telling theirs it was pack night.

 

Things had definitely gotten a lot easier for the pack since Ms. Mc Call found out about werewolves.

 

And even though Allison’s father disapproved of werewolves in general as a rule, he knew that being in the pack meant his daughter had more people vested in her safety, which was something he couldn’t really complain about. The pack’s alliance with the Argents was unusual to say the least, occasionally unethical and hard to explain to an outsider, but both parties gained from it so no one ever questioned it.

 

The pack, or more precisely,  _Scott,_  got Allison, and by extension her father, who had sworn not to hunt them and were, very, proficient in many forms of weaponry, and the Argents got supernatural back-up who helped them if the need arose. They also were able to keep the territory out of the watchful eyes of other hunters who might try and overthrow them. It was a win-win situation.

 

Derek, for his part, still refused to trust either of them for the same reason they didn’t trust werewolves, but he was getting there.

 

He didn’t think he would ever be in a place mentally or emotionally where he could completely trust anyone, not again, but the pack were the ones he trusted most.

 

With practically living together some days, and spending a bit of time outside of life or death situations hanging together, they had all gotten to know each other better.

 

More than just who was the best to use in a surprise attack or who was better with knives. They learned things like how Erica was useless in the mornings without a cup of coffee first, or how Jackson could eat his body weight in toast. Silly, useless things on one level, but on a sublevel with the pack bond involved, the knowledge strengthened them as a unit.

 

It was a good thing Derek was practically rich now because food costs alone in the pack were astronomical. The amount of money that went into weekly shopping, and even occasionally daily shopping, was ridiculous. It was one of those easy, domestic things that made Derek feel like he really was part of a pack. He’d missed it.

 

The smell of burning toast filled the kitchen as Boyd scrambled around, cursing under his breath that everyone could hear. “Sorry! Sorry!” He yelled out unnecessarily to the various bodies sprawled across the sitting room floor. Great, Derek thought as a dark, heavy smoke burned his airways, we’re all going to die a toast-related death. That would be a fun funeral.

 

We are here to remember the Beacon Hills pack, who were so stupid they burned down the newly built Hale house because some toast was burned. May they rest in peace.

 

Derek grabbed an apple from the wooden bowl on the counter and went to stand by the wall, watching as his pack flopped down on the various surfaces to eat.

 

Milk was poured into bowls on top of cereal, toast was buttered and jammed, and fruit was munched on. Someone had turned the TV on and left it on a cartoon channel that no one could be bothered to change. Derek felt the tension in the air, still left over from yesterday’s events, slowly start to melt away under the face of normality, but the silence that refused to be broken said it all.

 

There was a knock on the door around noon, and the wolves perked up at the familiar scent. Jackson almost fell over as he practically ran to the door. Lydia was standing on the porch, arms crossed. She smelled of Stiles. It made Derek’s wolf pace.

 

“I just want to say that the only reason I’m here is to deliver a message for Stiles and then I’m leaving again.”

 

Derek felt a sudden need to step forward, to speak. His wolf growled at him to stop before he even opened his mouth, but this was important. “Look, Lydia, if Stiles is making you leave the pack then maybe we can help you and…”

 

As one, the pack flinched as Lydia slapped him across the face. With werewolf healing it didn’t hurt, but the meaning was clear. Derek resisted the urge to rub at it where he could already feel the redness receding.

 

“How dare you.” Lydia said, watching him straight in the eye. Her voice was calm and steely like the centre of a hurricane. “First, how dare you imply I would do anything I didn’t want to do and that anyone would have that much power over me as to make me leave the pack? Second, how the fuck do you have the balls to try and claim that Stiles would make anyone do anything they didn’t first want to do, that, what, he would force me? Did you miss the part yesterday when I told you all that Stiles' asking was the only reason I stayed this long in the pack in the first place? You’ve got a lot of nerve, Derek.”

 

Derek only stretched his jaw and nodded once. He didn’t think Stiles would have done it, but lingering resentment of the fact he left in the first place had pushed him to ask.

 

Lydia clamped her hand around Jackson’s possessively, then threw a bag of some light dust at his chest.

 

Derek caught it one-handed, and stared down at it before raising his eyes back to hers. “Gift from Stiles.” She said, looking pleased with herself as the pack took a step away from Derek and, by proxy, the bag, in unison as if it were about to explode. She rolled her eyes instead of showing the malicious smile pulling the corners of her mouth, and Jackson took that as permission to wrap his arms around her. Derek wasn’t sure how that equalled to permission, but this was Lydia.

 

Rolling her eyes probably was her way of saying it was okay.

 

When she didn’t immediately attack him, Jackson’s arms went tighter and he buried his face in her hair, making soft little snuffling sounds. Derek wondered idly for a second if Stiles’ scent on Lydia was bothering him, but soon dismissed it. No one in their right mind would see Stiles as that sort of threat, especially not when the scent he and Lydia shared wasn’t a sexual one at all.

 

If anything, their mixed scent seemed to scream platonic friendship. But, still, it bothered Derek more than he cared to examine that Stiles' scent was all over her.

 

“Pixies are taken care of.” Lydia stated firmly, and Scott finally looked at her from where he had been avoiding meeting her eye, suitably chastised from yesterday’s declaration.

 

“You mean Stiles went into the forest all alone?! What was he thinking?!”

 

Lydia raised one impressively picked eyebrow at him, before waving her hand in the air.

 

“Yes, that’s exactly what I mean, and you will have to ask him. I don’t presume to try and make sense of his thought patterns. I doubt he’ll give you answers, but it’s worth a shot, right?” Her tongue dripped with sarcasm. Derek privately thought that she was spending too much time around Stiles.

 

“What’s in the bag?” He asked her instead of saying anything that would get him another slap. He might be the Alpha, but he wasn’t stupid.

 

“I didn’t ask. Though my guess would be pixie dust. Can be used as a concealer, deterrent or healing salve if mixed with the bark from an ash tree in liquid form. Hard to find, expensive to buy legally, and priceless on the black market. You’re lucky to have it. I don’t know why he is giving it to you, because if I was in his position I most certainly wouldn’t. My advice? Don’t waste it.”

 

Scott, who had been following the conversation with the same intensity reserved for a tennis match, spoke up. “Why would we use it to wash our clothes?”

 

The collected sigh almost raised the roof, and Derek worried briefly Lydia’s eyes might roll right out of her head.

 

“Deterrent, not detergent. God, you’re all idiots.”

 

Isaac glanced at her from where he had been ignoring the conversation in favour of watching the cartoons still playing on the screen, and had to raise his voice to be heard over the muffled explosions on the TV. Why were cartoons so violent? Derek wondered. He didn’t remember them being this bad when he was younger.

 

Granted, when he was at the age he thought cartoons were the coolest thing ever he was a small bit preoccupied with playing catch in the woods or learning how to be a werewolf. Both activities that were not always mutually exclusive.

 

“Hey, I really don’t think it’s fair to judge us all by the intelligence of Scott. No offense, Scott, but you’re not exactly the brightest crayon in the box, if you know what I mean.”

 

Scot scowled at him, but said nothing.

 

Lydia tugged at Jackson’s hand once more before taking small steps back through the front door. “Right then. I’m going to go now, and, for your own sakes, please don’t do anything stupid. I just finished painting my nails a new colour, and I really don’t need to have to clean blood from them again.” There was a collective shudder as the pack remembered the events that led up to that and Lydia’s subsequent rage. “Bye now! I will tell Stiles you send your regards!”

 

Jackson followed her out without a word, only one nod in Derek’s general direction, before the door closed and they were plunged into silence again.

 

Derek fingered the small bag of dust carefully in his hand. Why had Stiles given them this if it was a valuable as Lydia claimed? Derek had never been a scholar, and he knew next to nothing about pixie dust even with Lydia’s vague and short explanation.

 

Mind made up, Derek left the sitting room for the office to learn more about the properties of pixie dust. Wow, he would never have thought that he would use that sentence.

 

The rest of the pack slowly settled down back into the lazy morning routine, and not one of them mentioned the fact that Stiles had gotten rid of the pixies in less than 24 hours and all they’d been able to do in three days was try not to get attacked too often. But they were all thinking it.

 

…

 

Stiles was having a bad morning. Granted, with his life, that could be anywhere from I-am-being-possessed-and-need-a-really-good-spell-before-I-kill-everybody to I-left-my-car-keys-at-home-and-the-coffee-machine-isn’t-working. Unfortunately for him, his bad days had been more of the ‘running for your life’ type than he would have liked the last few weeks.

 

But he had only died once, so you know, silver linings. Today was a bad day because it wasn’t even noon and someone, or in this case multiple someones, had tried to kill him. God, sometimes Stiles hated his life.

 

A root in the middle of the path tripped him up suddenly, sending him scrawling across the dirt path. Damn it, just a few more metres…

 

There! In one quick jump, Stiles managed to make it over the speeding river and onto the bank on the other side.

 

He took a few seconds to get his bearings, heart palpitating wilder in his chest. If his plan didn’t work, there was always Plan B. Elemental magic was tricky, but with the right push…

 

A vicious buzzing sound broke him from his thoughts, and Stiles stood up straight. He had managed to gain a rather impressive reputation after all, and that didn’t happen without some knowledge of intimidation techniques.

 

With one flick of his wrist the hoodie he was wearing transformed into a long, elegant red cloak. It had been Lydia’s idea, and worked much better than just jeans and a hoodie when he needed to express to someone how much of a bad idea it would be to cross him.

 

Contrary to what the rumour mill would have you believe, he had solved a lot of problems by first convincing the 'enemy' that he was the one with the bigger stick, to paraphrase Iron Man.

 

Hey, Stiles had never claimed he wasn't a nerd. Or geek. Or whatever people called it now. Terminology hadn't really been high on his list of priorities while he was away fighting evil creatures.

 

Plus the cape made for a great Halloween costume.

 

It left his chest and torso bare to the sight, but that was all part of the intimidation.

 

Stiles left the hood down, exposing his head and waited.

 

A few seconds later the buzz increased in volume and the first signs of life appeared across the river. Stiles flicked his hand out to raise a couple of leaves and swirl them in the air above his fingers, an impressive display to anyone who didn’t have magic.

 

Basic levitation was something any three year old with a spark could do. Granted it was harder to control specific objects in a continuous pattern, but to Stiles this was as easy as flipping a pen over his fingers.

 

On the other side of the river, the pixies paused.

 

Stiles murmured the incantation under his breath that would magnify his hearing, and suddenly everything became a lot louder.

 

The rushing of the river, the rustle of the leaves, the tinkle of the wings on the pixies’ backs. All the sounds sharpened and exploded in his ear, but he kept his face impassive.

 

The pixies muttered among themselves, Stiles catching only odd words here and there. His understanding of the language was crappy at best, but he was almost fluent in speaking both Latin and Faerie, two languages that pixies definitely spoke, or at least they had the last time Stiles was involved with them.

 

Deciding to use Latin, Stiles let the leaves floating fall to the ground and dropped his hands his sides.

 

 ** _Revertar in pace_**.

 

The pixies froze, and turned to him as one. That particular skill had always freaked him out when dealing with pixies before. The ability to act in unison without any outward sign.

 

 ** _Quid?_** Hey, it was a good thing these pixies spoke Latin. For a minute there Stiles was worried.

 

 _ **Huh, EGO coniecto pixies non adepto pop culturae references. Quid aliud voluit, non ad pugnam.**_ What? Stiles was snarky at the best of times and it’s not like he meant it as an insult or anything, just an observation.

 

 _ **Quid hic agis?**_ Wow, wasn’t that a loaded question. What was he doing here? Trying to stop Derek getting the pack black listed by the pixies, probably.

 

And maybe he was looking forward to seeing the looks on their faces when he managed what they couldn’t. Not that he was planning on going to visit them, but it was a nice thought to have.

 

 _ **Deprecarentur**_. Well, it was true in a sense. He was also there to calculate how big of threat the pixies were, but they didn’t need to know that.

 

The faint buzzing on the far side of the river paused for a split second before increasing. Stiles got the feeling they didn’t know what he was talking about. Wasn’t that a first.

 

 _ **Culpam deprecari pro loci Beacon Hills pack interpellandi posueris nidum tuum.**_ There, all clarified. And, bonus points for saying ‘Beacon Hills Pack’ and not my pack, or the pack.

 

Stiles really didn’t need everyone knowing who he was and what his relationship with the pack was. As far as anyone knew, he was just a powerful mage from Beacon Hills with the habit of getting into fights with ‘evil’ creatures. That was all they needed to know.

 

 _ **Irati sunt valde rudis. Nec illud quidem paenitet!**_ Aww, that was kind of adorable. Not that the pixies were angry, but because they felt so strongly about people in the wrong saying sorry.

 

Stiles himself was bit more cynical, but, if it could prevent the pack being killed…

 

 _ **Scio ego feci eis. Tantum te oro ut desineres LXXIV hanc et beneficio accepto et dabo vobis quamdiu non vultis carmine obesse aliud animal.**_ Hey, don’t blame him! Pixies were kind of cute, once you got past that whole tiny creature with fangs deal. Really, really sharp fangs.

 

It made Stiles just want to wrap them up in a blanket and hide them away from the world. Plus, the pack had kind of insulted them, no matter how unintentional, so offering his assistance was the least he could do.

 

 _ **Consentimus**_. See? All good with the pixies, and all he had to do was sign his soul over to the devil. Not really, obviously.

 

And, in all fairness, an apology and a favour weren’t that big of a deal. They had accepted his offer very easily, and quickly. There had been several more things he could have used as leverage if it had come to that but Stiles was glad he didn’t have to.

 

This tribe seemed calmer than most, and more cultured somehow than the wild tribes he usually encountered. He was just about to say thank you when…

 

 ** _Sed habemus unum._** Of course they do. It was always one question, no one can ever just accept something good when they heard it. What was that proverb? Never look a gift horse in the mouth? If the supernatural community at large could commit that to heart it would save Stiles so much time.

 

But there was no point being rude. He could answer the nice pixies’ question.

 

 _ **Quid?**_   Honestly, Stiles _was_ trying to be polite, but he was tired, and bruised, and there was only so much patience in his body.

 

 _ **Quis enim es tu?**_ Ah, that question. Now, there was no way Stiles was going to tell them his actual name, he wasn’t stupid, but there was always the risk that if he said his nickname they’d take fright.

 

Caught between a rock and a hard place. Oh, what the hell the cape kind of gave it away anyway.

 

 _ **Rubra feror Rubrum.**_ There, he said it. Many of the pixies jumped back in surprise, causing an interesting rippling effect. Stiles watched it, entranced, for a few seconds before shaking himself back into focus. Damn his ADHD.

 

 _ **Tu es qui profuisse domina Etiam me.**_ Well, damn. No wonder these pixies were so, for lack of a better term, civilised. If they were charges of the Pixie Court…

 

Stiles remembered the mission that had left him fighting alongside the Pixie Queen. That one had been a blast.

 

He had also, somehow, managed to save her life in passing, which had earned him a grateful head nod in the middle of the fight and a formal thank you later on. Stiles was fairly sure he was an honorary member of the court, which was always a bonus if he needed some allies.

 

The Queen herself had been possibly one of the nicest people Stiles had ever met, so even if the banquet held after wasn’t really suited to someone of his height, he had found himself promising to go back and visit.

 

If these pixies were anything like their queen, then the pack really must have insulted them to get so vicious an attack. Good to confirm his suspicions.

 

 _ **Pretium non opus est, pro nostra et regine nostre et tribus doni cum dicimus**._ Stiles held out a hand as a lone pixie flitted across the river and dropped a light silver packet in his open palm. They quickly returned to the rest of the tribe, but not before Stiles caught the nervous little smile on their, her, face.

 

Wow. Apparently news of his friendship and accidental saving of the pixie Queen had spread. They weren’t even asking for what was owed to them!

 

Any other situation, any other creature, maybe Stiles would have just let it go and move on. But, he had promised, and the pixies were still genuinely nice to forget the pack’s unfortunate slight so soon.

 

 ** _Gratias tibi aget. Sed votum est promissio. Ego sum multis rogatu tuo._** It was a bit risky stating a thing that could be so easily interpreted, and if they wanted to ask for something he wouldn’t normally do he now had no choice.

 

But, Stiles trusted the queen, and subsequently her subjects. If this ended badly he would deal with it later.

 

 _ **Optime, et gratias tibi aget.**_ As soon as speaking that the pixies turned and left as smoothly as they’d arrived.

 

Stiles was left standing in the forest with a handful of magic pixie dust and a red cape billowing around his ankles.

 

Without even thinking, Stiles made the decision to give the dust to the pack. He still had a pouch of it at home from the incident with the courts, and even though pixie dust was a powerful tie in many spells, he just didn’t need it.

 

He knew of many casters and mages alike who sought out pixies just for their dust, along with fairies for their wings and elves for their hair. The buying and selling of magical creatures and their magics was strictly illegal, but on the black market you could buy almost anything. If you knew where to look.

 

 _ **Vale.**_ He whispered once, before turning around and walking back into the town.

 

Another flick of his wrist transformed the cape back into a hoodie, because his waist was chilled and also because he didn’t want to look insane going into town wearing nothing but a cape and jeans. Plus, no one needed to see what was going on with his chest.

 

That was between him and occasionally whatever guy he picked up in a bar. Or girl, but that occurred significantly less often.

 

All the girls he picked up in bars or liked the look of ended up becoming his closest friends, and that was just way too awkward a relationship. Not that it hadn’t worked out for him time and again, but Stiles was hoping to limit the amount of complicated in his life with returning home. It seemed like even after more than a year he still considered Beacon Hills home. He just couldn’t seem to shake it.

 

Stiles strolled along in the forest, the bag of magic dust small in his pocket. The pixies must have been beyond grateful to gift him with this. It was a heavy responsibility on his shoulders, that trust.

 

Stiles hoped it hadn’t been misplaced.

 

Well, at least the day hadn’t turned out to be so bad after all.

 

Who knew?

 

…

 

Derek sighed loudly and leaned back into the chair. His hands went up subconsciously to his tired eyes, and he let his head lean on his palms for a few minutes, just focusing on his breaths.

 

Five hours of research and study, and all he’d managed to achieve was the knowledge that Stiles had been an idiot to give away the pixie dust.

 

It wasn’t news to Derek, since he had already had Lydia’s input.

 

Huffing out a breath between his cheeks Derek used the tips of his fingers to root around in the pile of loose pages he had copied relevant information onto to.

 

The office Derek currently resided in held, courtesy of Deaton, Lydia and E-Bay, a veritable library of books on supernatural creatures. There were multiple bestiaries, diaries, notes, textbooks, spell books, anything and everything the pack could get their hands on.

 

Not that they had needed it much in the last year, but Lydia for one had spent an inordinate amount of time researching. With the new information come to light about Stiles being the equivalent of the supernatural police/mercenary and Lydia’s assistance, Derek was almost sure that she had been researching for Stiles the entire time.

 

Maybe Stiles was the reason they had all this information in the first place. A lot of the newer diaries and things that Derek by all accounts shouldn’t have, had come from Lydia.

 

And Lydia had gotten them from a friend.

 

Derek wondered why he had never thought to question that, but knew the answer was because it helped him, and Derek was too used to bad things to question when something good happened.

 

Even with all the books surrounding him, their information on pixies was sorely lacking. They were mentioned in passing, in various diary accounts, and even a few friendly pixies had been observed. One diary in particular called them ‘elegant and courteous people, with a fondness for the arts’.

 

Derek hadn’t met a lot of pixies, but the ones he had had most certainly not fit that description.

 

What no book was able to tell him, however, was how to get rid of them.

 

Derek glanced at the bag of pixie dust sitting on the corner of the table. Stiles had somehow managed it, but if there was a way or a spell, Derek had had no luck in finding it.

 

Pixie dust, on the other hand, was mentioned everywhere. It was used for spells, and chants, and charms. It could strengthen pretty much all types of magic when used correctly.

 

And Lydia had been right, as always (not that Derek would ever admit to thinking that) when she said that pixie dust, when used in the right way, had the ability to hide people or places from all senses, and it was known to be used incredibly successfully in healing.

 

It had even been recorded once for speeding up the healing of wolfsbane poisoning in werewolves, or iron in fairies. It was notoriously hard to get a hold of, and Derek had only found one mention of someone receiving it in a way that wasn’t horrific torture on the pixies’ part.

 

And torture just didn’t seem Stiles’ style.

 

Derek resigned himself to not knowing, a situation he was never comfortable in but that seemed to happen with increasing regularity whenever Stiles was involved, and the papers in his hand fluttered in the breeze as he walked down the stairs and into the sitting room cum meeting room.

 

Scott and Allison had left hours previous, something about lunch at the Argents house, and Erica and Boyd were too busy making out on the couch to look up at his abrupt reappearance.

 

The pack were well used to his particular quirks at this point. One of which was spontaneously getting up and moving to a different room with no outward indication of a motive. Derek knew for a fact they just assumed he liked constantly knowing what was happening in all of the houses’ rooms. The sad reality was that he often just forgot there was anyone to tell who would care.

 

Isaac was passed out eagle spread in his bedroom, his right arm just touching the floor and his opposite leg hanging over the other side. Derek knew it had taken a long time for Isaac to get comfortable with doing that, his father having enforced on him from a young age the need to be neat, but Isaac’s new room expressed his recovery more than anything else ever could.

 

Derek could barely have stepped one foot into the room without something, or a pile of somethings, toppling over, and a small part of him recognised this as a defensive action, letting Isaac know the second someone approached him, but the bigger part of him was just glad Isaac felt comfortable enough to be messy and uncoordinated sometimes. It was a vast improvement from the troubled teen he had once been, often seemingly scared of his own shadow.

 

It hadn’t taken long to figure out his triggers, like the sound of breaking glass or raised voices, and after that he had gotten much better in a shorter period of time. Derek was just glad they were through the worst of it. Hearing Isaac’s nightmares every night and being unable to help him had been a torture all in its own for the protective Alpha.

 

Once Erica and Boyd had gotten over their fall into teenage hormones -did Derek sound bitter? He felt bitter- Derek threw a handful of take-out menus at them.

 

The pack were regulars at every fast food place in town. The Chinese, Burger Joint and Pizza Palace had their orders memorised.

 

Their usual order was too much food for eight people (but barely enough for their pack of assorted supernatural creatures), so Derek knew a lot of the delivery people just assumed they were throwing a party when they showed up at the huge house with enough food for an entire football team, and friends.

 

There might not be any loud music, dancing people or general party atmosphere, but there were other kinds of parties.

 

The pack had had the cops called on them no less than 22 times. It was a good thing the Sheriff knew what was going on with them so he could sooth the ruffled feathers.

 

For the last five months the pack had just been sending someone to pick it up in town instead. Less questions asked that way.

 

This time was Derek’s turn, but first they had to choose between the, admittedly many, options. And they had to know if Scott, Allison and Jackson were going to be there too. Derek was not suicidal or fool-hardly enough to ask Lydia, and figured that he would just let Jackson ask instead.

 

Cowardly? Definitely. Possibly the smartest idea he had ever had? Without a doubt.

 

Derek pulled out his phone, a newer make touch and fired of a quick group text to the three of them.

 

Contrary to what his pack seemed to believe, Derek was not in fact technologically challenged and was fully capable of handling a touch phone.

 

If he accidently deleted a couple of contacts when he bumped the screen-the how was anyone’s guess- none of them had to know. It’s not like the numbers were for anything important anyway, Derek thought. Derek hoped.

 

Derek’s challenges with simple everyday things were on a need-to-know basis only.

 

Apparently his self-inflicted recluse habits in the weeks/years after the fire and prior to the forming of the pack weren’t healthy. It had never caused him any trouble before, but unfortunately for Derek he had bitten some very strong willed teenagers once they grew into themselves. He sure knew how to pick them.

 

A text buzzed his phone in his hand, and a glance down told him that Scott and Allison were going to join, but Jackson would come alone. Lydia was most likely going to be spending the evening with Stiles. Derek tried very hard to convince himself that that thought didn’t make him want to punch something.

 

He almost managed it, but it was harder to lie to yourself than it was to lie to someone else. Someone who couldn’t hear your heartbeat, anyways.

 

Erica, Boyd and Isaac, his original three Betas as he thought of them, finally decided on pizza, for the simple reason that Chinese was ‘too complicated to eat with your hands’, and Isaac wanted garlic bread. That was pretty much how they made decisions in the Hale pack.

 

A mixture of laziness and someone’s craving. It was a good system. Maybe ‘good’ wasn’t the right word, but it worked for them.

 

And that was what mattered.

 

Scott and Allison showed up a half an hour later with the matching painful grins on their faces they always got after any interactions with Allison’s dad.

 

His attitude towards werewolves and supernatural beings in general had improved drastically since the whole deal with Gerard, but he had still been force fed bigotry at least half his life, if not more. That much inbred hatred and mistrust was hard to just forget, especially when one such being was dating your daughter.

 

But Chris Argent was trying, and it put a few of Derek’s fears to rest.

 

Not all of them, and not even half of them, but some.

 

Jackson arrived soon after, with no sign of Lydia or Stiles. Even though he knew it had been pointless and a long-shot, Derek felt his hopes diminish in his chest.

 

Even their scents were missing from him, as if forcefully washed away, and if Derek hadn’t already known Jackson had spent time with them there would be no outwardly indication. It was a useful skill, and one Derek hadn’t known Lydia possessed.

 

The thought didn’t cross his mind until later that it might have been Stiles who had done it, and by then it was almost too late.

 

The toppings were decided upon, the movie picked, and Derek soon found himself driving from the preserve into the town of Beacon Hills, with a list the length of his forearm in Boyd’s huge, messy scrawl.

 

Derek didn’t know why Isaac, whose writing was insanely easy to read every time he picked up a pen, didn’t just write everything, but some part of him recognised that shoving writing duty onto Isaac’s shoulders the whole time would be unfair.

 

The other part of him was still trying to read the writing on the list.

 

“What is that?” Derek muttered quietly to himself, eyes flicking between the road and the paper with a casual easiness that came from experience. “Is that a p…? No wait, it looks like an f… what topping starts with an f?”

 

Throwing the towel in (figuratively, of course. Derek might have good reflexes but having no hands on the wheel would still cause an accident) on trying to translate the writing, Derek just ordered their usual when he arrived at the restaurant. With extra garlic bread. Because sometimes he did pay attention to what was going on around him other than listening for potential threats.

 

It took Derek a second to catch it, under the smells of pizza, and the other customers, that filled the small area, but he could just make out the faint thrum of power he now associated with Stiles underneath it all.

 

Logically, Derek shouldn’t have been able to. Not when the scent was hours old and people were constantly moving in and out of the building, but catch it he did. Logic had never really applied to things concerning Stiles where Derek was involved.

 

The knowledge that Stiles had been there, that he was real in an actual, discernible way, it calmed his wolf side in a manner Derek hadn’t even known he needed.

 

The scent was just similar enough to Stiles’ old one that it still brought back memories of being a pack, of Stiles.

 

Derek let out a breath he hadn’t even known he’d been holding for the past year and three months. Something settled in his chest, and ordinarily Derek would have been terrified of it, because it felt almost like happiness. Genuine, deep happiness.

 

But the buzz he got from smelling Stiles again, and the high from spending time with his pack allowed him to just be in a way he hadn’t in years.

 

The man at the counter calling out his order brutally reminded him of reality, but Derek felt lighter than he had since Stiles left, and, honestly, since Laura was killed. It was if a weight had been removed from his chest, and the sensation made Derek feel giddy.

 

When the man handed him his multitude of boxes and bags, all Derek got was a slightly confused look before the guy moved on to the next customer. That was why Derek loved college students in this town. They had already seen so much weird and fantastical shit that a lone guy ordering 15 pizzas, 7 garlic breads, 10 bags of chips and 8 portions of chicken pieces was barely worth the energy to notice, let alone question. It made Derek’s life much easier, that was for sure.

 

At the pay-area Derek somehow managed to pull out his wallet, and he barely blinked at the price. He left a generous tip before leaving the shop, his car keys pressing tightly into the palm of his hand.

 

It was at times like these that werewolf strength became more useful for everyday things, rather than just ripping guys’ body parts of when they cross you. Not that that couldn’t be fun too.

 

With a muffled groan that was only mostly exaggerated, Derek dumped the junk food in the passenger side seat and silently prayed it wouldn’t fall over while he was driving. The last thing he needed was to have to scrape pizza of the floor of his Camaro.

 

Again.

 

Derek sighed once, before turning the key in the ignition. It might be a lot of work, but Derek wouldn’t give up his pack for the world.

 

And, now that Stiles was back and stronger than ever, Derek had no intention of giving him up either.

 

He caught himself humming as he drove back to the house. For the first time in a long while, things didn’t seem so bleak to him. It was a good feeling.

 

He recognised the song he was humming as ‘Radioactive’ by Imagine Dragons. So sue him, Erica liked listening to pop music and sometimes he found himself liking the songs.

 

He was still humming as he pulled up to the Hale house. Movement in the window caught his eye, and Derek supressed a groan. Damn Erica and her wolf hearing. She was never going to let him hear the end of this.

 

Derek wouldn’t have it any other way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeah, this chapter came out a lot different then I thought it would. Originally it was supposed to be a fight with the pixies, but instead, this happened. My brain does weird things.  
> Mention of Stiles saving someone's life, Derek feeling guilty then happy, and pizza is purchased with Derek's funds that are insanely big (I'm going to go right ahead and just say Derek is rich. Apologies for all uncanon-ness). Translations from English to Latin were found online (NOT Google Translate, I learned my lesson before) but if anybody can speak Latin feel free to correct me if it's wrong! English translation here;
> 
> I come in peace.  
> What?  
> Huh, I guess pixies don't get pop culture references. What I meant was, I am not here to fight you.  
> Why are you here?  
> To apologize.  
> To apologize on behalf of the local Beacon Hills pack for interrupting your nest.  
> They were very rude. They didn't even say sorry!  
> I know, and I have dealt with them. All I ask is that you cease this vendetta, and, in return, I will grant you a spell of your choice as long as it does not cause harm to any other living creature.  
> We agree.  
> ...  
> But we have one question.  
> What?  
> Who are you?  
> I am known as the Red Hood.  
> You are the one who helped our queen!  
> Yes, that was me.  
> No payment is necessary, and, on behalf of our tribe and our queen we gift you with this.  
> Thank you. But a promise is a promise. I am at your request.  
> Very well, and thank you.  
> Farewell.
> 
> Finally... the response to this story has been FREAKING AMAZING. I want to point out that the original end notes I just deleted had a lot more exclamation points and capital letters. Seriously, though, thank you so much to everyone who read this story, bookmarked it, gave it kudos, or commented. It really helps me keep writing, and I love hearing what you all think of it!  
> Once again, this fic is unbeta'd, so any and all mistakes are my own.  
> Next chapter will have the return to school, senior year, and Stiles is going to wreck peoples' heads! Literally, cannot wait to write it. Classes begin again Tuesday week, so I don't know if I will be able to write as often, or as long, chapters (currently trying to keep them to 6,000+), but I'm still going to try and get them out at least once a week.  
> Thank you all for your support, and hope you liked this chapter!  
> Laters!


	4. I've said it before and I'll say it again. High school sucks. I mean, I'm an all powerful mage that battles demons and monsters, shouldn't that at least get me out of Harris' classes? Anybody? No? Of course, you choose now to keep quiet. Typical.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Danny is secretly super observant, Stiles and the pack have the first day of Senior Year, Stiles gets angry and then revenge, and Derek decides the best way to deal with Stiles' return is anger. Yeah, like that'll end well.

Danny was looking forward to senior year. He was finally going to be 18, which had been a long, long time in coming. The lacrosse team last year had gotten to the finals, and this year Danny figured they actually had a pretty good chance of winning, especially if Mc Call and Lahey got their act together.

He had passed all his tests last year with flying colours, even the subjects he hated, so that had been cool.

He had looked into various colleges and found a few that offered brilliant IT courses, and had signed up for consideration for a scholarship.

He had money as well, not a lot, but his summer job of helping people with their electronics and hacking onto the school database went way, way better than he thought it would.  
It hadn’t been strictly speaking illegal, but hey, there was decent money involved.

Plus, his asshole of an ex had been dumped by the guy he had been cheating on him with. Brutally, if Facebook was anything to go by. And that had put him in a really good mood.

So all in all, Danny was expecting senior year at Beacon Hills to be a little boring, and little slow, nothing really interesting or exceptional happening, not like Sophomore Year when there were all those attacks and deaths in the town.

So of course, he had to go and jinx it.

His homeroom teacher this year was, to his dismay, Mr. Harris, who was still as much of a dick as he had been the year before, and the year before that, and probably every year since he became a teacher.

The first five minutes of class went by insanely slowly, with the usual back-to-school bustle and teacher having trouble controlling the class, but Danny prided himself on noticing things others didn’t. Like how Scott refused to look anyone in the eye, and Lydia was sitting by Jackson but glaring steadily at the rest of their group.

And with school started again, and with no job to distract him, Danny remembered how last year at the beginning of the semester a seemingly random bunch of people had become a group.

There was Lydia, and Jackson, his best friend who had changed a scary amount, Scott Mc Call, the up and coming Lacrosse champion who was, frankly, one of the weirdest people Danny knew which was saying something, and Allison Argent, the still-kind-of-new-girl-even-after-two-years that was practically attached at the hip with Scott.

Plus, there was Erica, the girl with epilepsy that one day came into school looking and acting nothing she had, Boyd, who everyone knew as the loner guy who sat alone but helped them win the lacrosse game that one time, and Isaac, the quiet kid who played lacrosse and who had been arrested under suspicion for killing his father, which Danny thought a little extreme.

Before Isaac had come back to school as one of the leather brigade. One of Derek Hale’s, who was unfairly hot even with his t-shirt on and when Stiles tried to convince him his name was ‘Miguel’, lap dogs.

The entire circle of unlikely friends had all come back to school subdued, and it had only taken Danny a few classes to realise there was someone missing. Stiles.

It was strange, really, but by end of the first week of their Junior Year all anybody had been able to talk about was Stiles’ absence. For someone that hadn’t hung around with too many people, he was surprisingly well known.

Stiles hadn’t shown up for the whole year, but the entire group, all of the people who he had hung out with, had been eerily silent in and about his absence. The rumours went from mundane, that a member of his family had fallen ill and he had gone to help them recover (even though everyone, or maybe just Danny, knew that Stiles' had no living relatives except for his dad and people he hadn't spoken to his entire life), to the fantastical, that Stiles had gotten arrested for doing drugs and sent to juvie (which was flat out ridiculous because Stiles acted high already without the need for chemicals, but Danny could sort of see where the confusion lay) to the plain insane, which involved some plt about aliens and government conspiracies.

Danny was pretty sure Greenberg had started that one. But he wouldn't put in past Stiles to end up in that situation. He had a knack for it from what Danny remembered.

So, of course, taking all of that into account, it took Danny two glances to fully understand what he was seeing when Stiles Stilinski walked into his homeroom.

It was a shock, seeing him again. Danny had all but forgotten how he used to look, but in the face of him then he found it hard to forget.

He was there, but not. It wasn’t the same Stiles that left Beacon Hills sophomore year, that was for sure.

His hair was longer, falling loose over his forehead, in that casual way like he had just raked his fingers through it, or as if he had forgotten to brush it once getting out of bed. He was wearing form fitting black jeans, paired with a blood red long sleeved top and a black leather jacket that fell to just above his hips. Danny was mature enough to admit that he looked hot. And Danny had never imagined he would apply that word to Stiles Stilinski, but there they were.

On his neck Danny could just make out stretching tendrils in black ink that spread all the way down to his wrists if the black lines there were any indication.

Under his shirt, for anyone to see, bunched tight muscles that rivalled anything you could see in the boys’ locker room. But it wasn't the sort of muscles people got from working out. Stiles was leaner, muscles that were put into actual use on a daily basis. He looked like he could out-strengthen everybody on the lacrosse team, and that was very hard to do.

He looked like another one of Derek’s, where someone randomly comes back into school looking like the bad-ass version of themselves, but judging by the mixed surprised and ecstatic faces on his old group apart from, surprisingly, Lydia and Jackson, and the almost derisive way Stiles glanced over his former friends, Danny thought otherwise.

But by far the biggest difference was his attitude. Stiles had never been one for subtlety or embarrassment, not even when logic or high school dictated he should, but now he exuded confidence, borderline arrogance, and an exciting danger that made everybody in the room catch their breath.

He was as different from the old Stiles as night and day, but the fact that everyone in the class was promptly ignored except for Lydia, who smiled in response to Stiles’ gentle smile aimed at her, and Jackson, who got a smirk that could rival Jackson’s own, and himself, who was quickly at the receiving end of a contemplative look that put him on edge, made everything that much more strange.

Danny tried not to squirm in his seat at the intense gaze, and was grateful, for once, when Mr Harris drew Stiles’ too focused gaze to the front of the room.

“Mr. Stilinski!”

Stiles turned a lazy gaze over to the desk where Harris sat, already making his way to the back of the room and sitting down, bag slung casually over one shoulder.

“’S’up?” Even his voice was different, low and husky, hauntingly musical, like you could hear it echo through your head. It was borderline hypnotic, weaving a careful trance over everyone who heard him speak. Danny had to shake his head a few times to clear it, feeling vaguely punch drunk for no discernible reason. If the befuddled expressions on his classmates' faces were anything to go by, they were as affected by Stiles' voice as he was.

Stiles lifted his feet up onto the desk he was sitting at, his hands behind his head, the picture of relaxed. In front of him, Danny could hear the hushed voices of Scott, Isaac and Allison, but he couldn’t seem to make sense of what they were saying.

“What’s up is that you have been missing from my classes for over a year and you cannot just walk into my classroom and assume I will not notice!”

Stiles didn’t look at all bothered, instead just gesturing with one hand to the laptop on the desk as he tilted his head back to stare at the ceiling, as if it had suddenly developed something fascinating that was worthy of his complete attention. “Of course not, Sir.” And was it only Danny or did that sound more like mocking than anything else?

“But you’ll find, if you look closely, that the reason for my absence has been taken care of and I am, in fact, signed into the required classes. So I’m afraid your objections to me being here aren’t valid objections. Who could have known?”

Mr Harris looked like he had just choked on a lemon, before he scowled at the entire class.

“It says here family trouble.” He said to Stiles, his glasses slipping down his face from the force of his frown.

Stiles smirked at him once, before pulling his feet down from the desk and slouching back in his seat.

“Of a sort.” Was all he said, and Harris seemed to really hate that answer if the way he glared at Stiles was any indication. Danny was watching the encounter with probably too much amusement, but this was Beacon Hills. Nothing exciting had happened in over a year.

Actually, come to think of it, nothing exciting had happened since Stiles left. That seemed like too much of a coincidence to just ignore.

“Well, Mr. Stilinski, where have you been then?”

Almost by accident, unconsciously, the entire class leaned forward to hear, because this Stiles was apparently worthy of their attention.

Stiles himself leaned forward, eyes alight, face suddenly engaged in his surroundings. 

“You want to know?” His voice was quiet, calm, but deadly. It made Danny want to flinch back, because this Stiles? This Stiles seemed like he could kill everyone in the room with no more than a thought, and still smile sweetly at whoever survived.

Stiles’ fingers pressed against each other as if in prayer, fingertips barely grazing as he held his hands suspended in the air, but his smirk widened in the face of everybody’s interest.

His voice became dark and held an almost bedroom quality that was completely inappropriate for a classroom, but that held everyone's attention, even those who appeared to be avoiding blatantly listening in, his eyes almost glowing a rich, golden hazel that made Danny double take because that wasn’t normal, wasn’t human.

“I was gone, because of something that is completely out of your understanding. Now, if you don’t mind, I really would appreciate it if you all minded your own business.”

Danny couldn’t help it, he laughed. He regretted it an instant later, because it drew everyone’s attention to him. Danny didn’t mind being the centre of attention usually, but it felt somehow loaded in that moment.

He wasn’t the only one who laughed, however. A couple of people copied him a second later, watching the interaction between the kid that looked like Stiles but acted like someone completely different, and the people he used to be inseparable from that all looked stricken, because it was clear to anyone in the room with a brain that that last comment had been aimed at them no matter who Stiles had been watching. Plus, Harris, who was generally considered as an all-round dick was finally being treated how he treated students.

A few seats away from him, Stiles turned and grinned at him. In the row in front, Scott, Boyd, Erica and Allison all turned to him but left their unblinking eyes on Stiles. The act-in-unison thing was freaky.

Mr Harris thumped a hand down on the desk in front of him to get everybody’s attention back to the front of the classroom, before pointing one finger at Stiles, who was still nonchalantly smiling with one side of his mouth.

“Detention for tardiness, Mr Stilinski. You can’t come into my class late and then disrupt the other students.”

Stiles shrugged one shoulder, and it occurred to Danny then that Stiles literally did not care. It wasn’t like when someone faked it, when they rebelled but really wanted approval, this was different.

Danny suddenly got the feeling that it didn’t matter what they threatened Stiles with, he would just do whatever he wanted. There was none of that fear, none of that lingering sense that there was a line he wouldn’t cross. This Stiles was unpredictable, would do anything.

Harris seemed to see it too, because he quickly changed the subject back to school, and avoided Stiles’ eyes for the rest for the class.

Within an hour after that, it seemed that practically the whole school knew of Stiles’ return, and how he was basically a different guy.

It wasn’t until lunchtime that Danny noticed something weird, well, weirder. All the people Stiles used to associate with, all of the group, looked, the word wretched came to mind.

They looked like they had just been told someone died.

It wasn’t until a few minutes later that Danny discovered that none of them were anywhere to be found.

And, because he was a nosy bastard at the best of times, Danny spent a good ten minutes wandering around the school looking for them.

He found Jackson pretty quickly, him and Lydia sitting quietly side by side in an abandoned classroom, and Danny very quickly and gently shut the door behind him.

He didn’t really want to intrude on someone else’s private moment, even for the sake of satisfying his curiosity.

He was five minutes away from just calling it quits and heading back down to the cafeteria when the bang of a door down the hall caught his attention.

He turned the corner just in time to see Stiles storm out of a classroom, his footsteps loud and imposing in the empty hallway.

He was followed after a few moments by the rest of the group, all of them looking completely devastated and damp eyed.

Danny didn’t know what Stiles had said to get that reaction from them, and judging by Stiles’ venomous glare to Scott when they passed each other in the hallway on the way to their next class after lunch, he shouldn’t want to.

Apart from the drama that was Stiles' return, nothing interesting at all happened the entire day. They go slightly more respect from the teachers for being Seniors, maybe, and the Freshman looked absolutely terrified of them which was funny to see, but it felt like just another day.

It happened then at the end of the day, the jinx factor that he was expecting that would make this year abnormal. Stiles came up behind him and gently took him by the arm.

“Danny!” He exclaimed, and Danny got a sudden burst of déjà vu. That same tone of voice, as if saying something louder and in a higher pitch made people more willing to listen, had gotten him into a lot of trouble before.

Stiles continued, his eyes fever bright with a decidedly insane edge to them, the intensity of his gaze so different than it used to be. The grin on his face looked borderline homicidal, dosed with a fair amount of plotting revenge. There was absolutely no reason why that should have made Danny suddenly eager for something fun and hopefully dangerous to do. But it did.

For a Sheriff’s son, Stiles could be a really bad influence.

“Just the guy I wanted to see…”

 

…

 

Stiles was fucking pissed as hell, all right? He hadn’t wanted to come back to school, had quite enjoyed his extended vacation for the last year, thank you very much.

But his dad had asked him, and Stiles still felt so guilty from leaving and lying to him that he had folded like a house of cards and agreed to go, even though he couldn’t learn anything he didn’t already know.

Then that asshole Harris had tried to pull his usual shit. Stiles was tired, and angry, and all grown up, and if Harris wanted to be a sonofabitch then he could damn well try it on someone else, because there was no way he was going to let anyone talk to him like that. Not again.

The idea of actually attending the detention was laughable, after that.

So, of course, the pack had to try and corner him at lunch when Stiles was quite happy to continue to pretend they didn’t exist in the same time zone, let alone the same school. 

They got him into an empty classroom, and their pleading looks just made him want to laugh. But then Scott had to slam him into a wall. Okay, now he was mad.

Stiles let him for the simple reason that he didn’t want any of the pack to find out how strong he was until he wanted them to, and because there were other methods to use before things got physical.

“Get. Your. Hands. Off. Me.” He growled at Scott, punctuating each word with a magic jab that was the equivalent of a punch.

Scott stumbled backwards, his face a mask of shock that for once, for fucking once, Stiles had actually stood up for himself.

Well, his look wasn’t the only thing that had changed.

When Stiles glanced around at the gathered people, he realised that the only one who wasn’t there was Jackson, and wasn’t that ironic? That his least favourite person had quickly become the only person he could trust not to try and corner him in an empty classroom the moment of his return.

Well, if they thought he was just going to sit there and listen to their shit, they could shove it like Harris had to.

“You don’t have the fucking right to touch me.” Stiles said to him, upper lip curled because this was Scott, and if he hadn’t cared a year ago why on earth would he care now? Actually, why the hell should Stiles care? His so called best friend who had barely even been a friend in the months before he left, let alone the brother he used to be.

So Scott could suck it up and face the fact that he screwed up. Big time.

They were all watching him with wide eyes, and Stiles could practically feel them judging him. Well they could all go fuck themselves for all he cared.

“Stiles…” That was Allison, always the voice of reason, trying to convince him that he was overreacting. Stiles called bullshit.

Stiles stood up dead straight, forcing a smirk on his face, glaring them hard in the eye until they submitted and turned their eyes to the floor.

When he spoke, he knew from experience it came out like barbs, knew that if he emphasized his words just this way it made everything sound like a threat.

“I don’t care about whatever bullshit excuse you all have prepared. I really don’t. I don’t give a fuck that I’m not in the pack, don’t care that you all decided since I was human I wasn’t good enough, or that you had all just gotten sick of me, or whatever bull crap excuse you want me to believe. There is literally nothing you could say to make everything all right. So save your fucking breath, and go find someone else to bother who actually gives a damn what you have to say.”

Scott had the absolute balls to look hurt by this, like Stiles wasn’t the one who was abandoned, like he was the one who had to sit through four fucking months of nightmares before eventually just drugging himself to sleep when it became completely unavoidable.

And Stiles just… broke.

He slammed a fist into the side of Scott’s face, uncaring that he was showing just how strong he’d become when it didn’t immediately heal, not caring that they were all watching him with bated breath for his next move.

He grabbed Scott by the front of his shirt and pushed him against the wall, positions reversed, his voice low so that only those nearest could hear it.

“No, Scott. You don’t get to look fucking wounded. You don’t have the right to look at me like I’m the one in the wrong here. You didn’t care when Gerard beat the ever loving shit out of me to get to you, didn’t notice the fact that I flinched whenever a light flickered, didn’t notice that I had been captured again by hunters until I was so broken I ended up in a freaking coma, because you,” And there he jabbed one finger into Scott’s chest, anger overpowering everything in his need to make Scott feel even a pinch of the pain he had felt for so long, “You were too busy pissing on your territory with Derek to notice. And when I needed you most, when I had nightmares every. Damn. Night. Of drowning, of Gerard, of my dad being killed because I was too invested in keeping your fucking secret, and everyone dying because I wasn’t strong enough, you weren't there. And the nightmares kept coming, because I didn’t have powers, or supernatural strength, or advanced healing, I was just human, and somehow the universe fucked up enough to leave me responsible. To leave me with a bunch of people who obviously didn’t care enough about me when I cared too much about them. Who used me for research, for information, but who couldn’t even care enough about me to show one second of gratitude, who didn’t respect me enough to trust that I could actually take care of myself. And then, when I was tortured for information I didn’t have because YOU kept me out of the loop, because YOU decided with no prior evidence that I wasn’t good enough to know what was going on, to know what could kill me, or someone I loved, I had to find my own fucking way out. My own way to survive. And I still didn’t tell them anything I knew. Not one word, because I was so sure, so certain that someone would show up to help me, someone would either rescue me or put me out of my misery. But no one did. No one noticed I was gone until it was practically too late, until I had broken bones and an even more broken spirit. And I crawled out of the building I lit in flames, because I somehow managed to think through my delirium and light those bastards on fire. And where were you? Where were the pack? Where were the people I trusted to get me out of there?! You didn’t come to the hospital where I was practically dead, not once, not even to tell me that ‘hey, everybody survived’, and I spent two whole fucking weeks trapped in my own head, unable to move a finger, thinking that I held out for nothing. That someone had died even though I didn’t say anything. And, finally, finally, after being buried in my own grief and guilt, thinking that maybe you had all been killed, I get out, only to have to deal with your shit, with the fact that you managed, again, to piss off someone stronger than you because you just couldn’t admit you were wrong. And I didn’t even get an apology. Ten years, Scott. Ten years of friendship down the drain because you were too wrapped up in all your shit to realise that maybe I was broken too. To realise that there was stuff going on without you involved, that maybe the human might have been considered the easiest target and used because of it. To understand that you weren’t the only one with scars, and that the rest of us don’t have your ability to heal. So, no. You don’t get to play the victim here. This is all. On. You.”  
Stiles released him then, and turned to face the rest of the pack, who were watching him with various expressions of astonishment, crippling guilt and even nausea.

Good, Stiles thought viciously, they deserve to feel guilty.

And he was just about to leave, had managed to pull himself together enough to go, but Allison had to step forward and try and grab is arm. And whatever control he had was lost in that second.

He gripped her arm, preventing her from reaching for the weapon that was strapped to her thigh. “Allison.” She froze at the sound of her name, and looked at him like he was going to take a bite out of her. He was, just not physically. “The huntress. The Juliet to Scott’s Romeo. The person who just couldn’t accept that there were other people who needed help too. Did you know your grandfather beat me? Did you know, when he was punching me downstairs, that it was happening? That Erica and Boyd were being tortured all because of what they were? Did you even care? You pretend to be so innocent, so pure, but when the fight’s on you are out there with the rest of them, the rest of the people soaked in blood, with no thought to those caught helpless in the crossfire. Someone points a target out to you and you have no problem shooting. That, at least, I can respect. You do what needs to be done to keep your family safe. But what about everybody else’s family? For every single person that you kill, you are hurting their loved ones, their friends. Every single person that winds up with an arrow where there shouldn’t be had someone who will die every day for the rest of their lives along with them. You, who should’ve known what it feels like to be a human in a pack of wolves, who should’ve been the first to know that not all humans are helpless creatures that need saving. So, don’t try and stop me from leaving when I want to leave. Remember that every time you choose to slip away, to let your dark side out, you are not the only one who feels the consequences. You’re not the only one who can get hurt.”

Stiles dropped her arm like it scalded him then, and, because he was still burning with energy that needed to be used up, he turned to Erica, Boyd and Isaac.

“Don’t look at me like I’m the one who screwed up, Erica. Don’t even think of getting indignant. You were there. I saw you flinching and looking away for every time his fist touched my face. But what do you do? You take the first available chance, and you fucking run. You run, and wind up caught by the Alphas, and no one even mentions the fact that we were all broken long before they came along. You all blame them, for everything that happened, but here’s the thing. You weren’t the one who was tortured for being human. None of you were the ones who had to live through their special brand of psychosis. And you, you knew. You heard my nightmares every night, you saw the debilitating panic attacks that rendered me in tears, screaming. You were right there, metres away, when the hunters dragged me by my wrists and beat me over the head with a baseball bat. And you ran. You didn’t stop by to my hospital room, didn’t think to tell me that you were still alive, didn’t have the guts to be there when I woke up, choking on air. You think you had it bad with Gerard? You didn’t have to live through two weeks being unable to move, but crying, fucking screaming on the inside because there was only the thought that everyone worth anything to you was dead, had been killed because you just couldn’t help them. So, just don’t. You might be Catwoman, but I am not your Batman.”

His words were coming through gritted teeth now, forced out by over a year of anger and pain. His voice was ice, and ashes, and death, and everything bad that had happened to him and everybody he loved. His eyes flicked to Boyd then, and he bitterly remembered the first time Boyd had opened up to him. Looked like that hadn't lasted.

“I trusted you, Boyd. God, I don’t even know why, but I did. And I would have done anything, anything, to keep any of the pack safe. I suffered through a week of torture by the hunters, and unspeakable things from the Alphas, and so many different types of suffering from so many different people. From Derek, from Peter, from Jackson, from Kate, from Gerard, from Matt, from all the supernatural shit that decides this town is worth their time. I mean, how could any of you possibly think I wasn’t strong enough to be in the pack? You were there too. You were watching as I was used as a sign, as a messenger. You were there as I tried to save you only to get beaten down. But it turned out the only two people who knew I had been there in the first place, knew of Gerard and what he was capable of, ran off the second they got a chance. And then came the Alphas, and the rescue, and somehow me getting myself captured to be used as a message. Again. I helped you, I taught you, I learned to see you for what you did and not what you said. I saw you as friend, and a pack mate, and then you decide to ignore all the evidence to the contrary, everything I had lived through, and believe me weak anyway, forgetting that I had been through more shit than you, been hurt more that you could ever think to have a nightmare about. Turns out my trust was misplaced. I hope having people to sit with at lunch was worth it.”

Stiles didn’t even feel that angry anymore, just overwhelming tiredness and a bone deep weariness that came from having to deal with all this shit on top of an already crappy day. 

He faced Isaac and huffed out a bitter laugh.

“Isaac. The pack puppy. The one who somehow always seems to be vulnerable. I helped you. I trained you. I taught you everything I could, that a human could. I let you get it all out, all the stuff buried inside about your father. We became the unlikeliest of friends, but somehow it worked. I was the one who you could call during a nightmare, the one you trusted to be there as quickly as physically possible to see you fall apart at the seams, and carefully sew you back together. Yet still, when I needed you, when I needed somebody that I could trust, you weren’t there. No one was there. You know the hunters had a special interest in you? The boy with the abusive father, Derek’s protégé, second only to me when connecting everybody together. Yeah, they had this special little trick for whenever they wanted information about you, in particular. It involved a knife, a coin, and the option of help, of an ending, that I never gave in to, because I refused to tell them anything. I was ready to die, and they were ready to let me, and all I had to tell them was where to find you and all your weaknesses. You were going to be their next target. But I couldn’t put anybody through what I was going through, let alone a friend, so I said Nothing. Not one damn word. But you, you stuck around for Scott, and I can admire that, respect that out of all the people to cling to you picked him. But what I can’t accept, what I find, and found, so hard to understand, was that I was of just as much of use to you as the rest of them. I was means to an end, if that. And that hurt. Because out of the whole pack, out of everybody, I guess I expected you to understand. To know how much I needed just one word, one confirmation when I was lying prone in that hospital bed that I hadn’t been tortured for nothing, that you were all still alive. But you go ahead and follow the pack’s lead, follow Derek’s lead. And I find that hard to forgive.”

Stiles took a step back then, drained of everything but the need to leave, because they were all staring at him, equal parts horror and devastation crossing their features as they understood, probably for the first time, that Stiles wasn’t just going to forgive them.

Couldn’t just forget that their stubbornness and idiocy had driven him from Beacon Hills in the first place. He didn't know if he would ever be able to.

“None of you have any right to judge me or my actions. And you can tell Derek fucking Hale that I said that, because I sure as hell won’t. I’m here until I get the boundary line back up to protect my town and my dad, and until then you stay the fuck out of my way of I swear I will hurt you beyond all belief. Just stay the fuck away from me. And don’t even bother trying to convince me that kicking me out was for my own good. The only good that came from this was because of me, because I left and learned to see myself as more than any of you ever did. You don’t get to take the credit for that.”

And with that Stiles stormed out of the class, unable to stay there a second longer. He had said everything he needed to say, and that was that.

If they came near him again he would just zap their asses with enough magic to give them a few broken bones. They would heal. 

Probably.

His magic wound itself around his body, comforting him in ways he hadn’t even known existed before he could feel his magic. It took a few beats of his heart where he savoured the anger, tasted its remains on his tongue, before he could let it go.

He caught sight of Danny at the edge of the hall, and a brilliant idea began to sneak its way inside his head. Like all his best ideas, that one came completely out of nowhere.

Sometimes, Stiles loved his brain.

 

…

 

For the pack, the next few days after the pixie fiasco were a rush of trying not to shift uncontrollably, trying, in vain, to catch either Stiles or Lydia on their own, and everybody but Derek preparing for senior year. It was a stressful few days, to say the least.

Stiles had come back to Beacon Hills on a Wednesday, so by Monday Derek hadn’t seen or heard from Stiles in over four days. That was more than 96 hours.

If it wasn’t for sporadic, vague comments from Jackson, and accidently catching Stiles’ scent around town, Derek would have been inclined to think he had already left.

Which was why he was surprised when, within a half an hour of bidding the pack goodbye so they could attend school (which Derek still saw as superfluous for a pack of werewolves with bigger issues to worry about), he got five separate text messages from all of his Betas informing him in various terms that Stiles had apparently shown up to school as if he hadn’t, according to Scott, ‘completely vanished for over a year without leaving a note with anyone like some sort of time traveller, or something’. Scott didn’t really have a way with words.

But what really got his attention was, within minutes of receiving a text from Scott saying they were going to try and get Stiles’ forgiveness, turning his phone on to find several missed phone calls and over twenty texts.

The texts got increasingly incoherent in the short span of ten minutes, and Derek gathered pretty quickly that something must have gone very, very wrong. Call it intuition, but really all it was reading Boyd’s text that said ‘I think I might get sick.’

Boyd was the only member of the pack except for Allison who used whole words while texting. It was a nice change from Scott’s ‘Stls is nvr goin 2 4gve us’.

Derek’s first thought, interestingly enough, when he discovered the abundance of failed communication was that his entire pack had been kidnapped. It really went a long way to showing what their lives had been like. But that thought went out of the window as soon as he began reading the texts.

Apparently confronting Stiles hadn’t gone so good. To be honest, Derek hadn’t really expected it to.

But then he got the first waves of guilt and pain and loss and desperation through the bond, overpowering and stronger than it had ever been, and it turned out that he hadn’t expected it to be that bad. Couldn’t have dreamed it would hurt that much.

He was in debilitating pain for a few agonising minutes, having fallen to the ground when it first happened. But Derek had been in a lot of pain in his life, and he managed to pull himself to the kitchen through five people’s worth of emotions. Hitting himself over the head with a frying pan seemed the lesser of two evils after that. The brief splash of physical plain yanked his focus back to his own consciousness, which was a relief to say the very least.

Unfortunately the frying pan had a dent in it. If Stiles were there he would have undoubtedly made some inappropriate comment about big heads and stubbornness.

But Stiles wasn’t there. Hadn’t been for over a year. And for the first time it occurred to Derek that maybe what they had done was inexcusable, unforgivable. That maybe Stiles wasn’t going to just forget it had ever happened.

The still echoing waves of pain and loss and breath taking guilt that his pack felt only cemented his fear that Stiles was never going to forgive them.

That maybe this screw up wasn’t fixable. The empty place in the back bond where Stiles and Lydia should have been throbbed brutally at his psyche. His wolf howled at him to be let out, to have the ability to tear someone to pieces. But Derek couldn’t afford to let go. Could never afford it, and he knew it.

Derek somehow managed to make it through the rest of the day on his own, but within literally seconds of the pack pulling up he was scrambling outside in an undignified manner, because last he heard most if not all of them were kind of falling apart.

They looked it too. Isaac looked more vulnerable than he had been since his father died, head cowed and fists clenched at his side. Boyd was less of a statue than he had ever been, his face brutally honest in a way Derek had never seen except in the mirror right after he found out Peter killed Laura, cut open and raw from emotions too powerful to keep locked up. Erica looked like she was going to puke, red lined eyes tearing up and being wiped carelessly in a repetitive motion, over and over. Allison looked downright homicidal, for Stiles or for something evil to shoot full of arrows Derek didn’t know, but he was beyond glad that the pack had forced a ‘no weapons bigger than your arm’ policy at school. Allison could still kill someone with the knife Derek knew she hid in her boot, but it was marginally better than a crossbow.

Scott looked the worst out of all of them, if how depressed and devastated someone looked could be turned into a competition, with wide teary eyes and an expression on his face Derek associated with being stabbed through the chest repeatedly.

A feeling Derek was oh too familiar with.

He not only looked like someone had kicked his puppy, but also stole, brutally murdered, stuffed, disrespected and then waved in front of his face. It was only slightly worse than Allison’s murderous tendencies. It made a sick sort of sense. After all, he had been Stiles' est friend, had known him longer than everybody else, had spent enough time with him that when Derek first met the two their scents were intermingled, overlapping.

They stumbled inside, barely avoiding breaking themselves or someone else with their detached clumsiness, heads hanging low and wretched.

They looked, in that moment, like the bunch of broken teenagers they really were, even Scott, arguably the least damaged of them.

It was somehow left to Derek as the adult and Alpha to comfort them, and somewhere in the universe, Derek was sure, someone was laughing at him.

Because this was Derek. Derek Hale. The last even partially sane member of his family. In charge of a bunch of kids, who, no matter how many bad guys they fought or injuries they sustained, were just that. Kids.

Derek could hardly have been depended on to comfort anyone, had dealt with his own baggage by shoving it down until it morphed into a revenge driven mind and slightly suicidal tendencies.

Derek was not the person to come to when you needed help, let alone when you needed someone to comfort you.

Yet there they were. Five people who actually needed him, for once, to do it right. It was a scary responsibility. The irony that it was Stiles who had the ability to do that, Stiles who with one word could comfort anyone, but had still caused this in the pack all because they had thought it best Stiles stay away for his own protection was a bitter taste in his mouth.

And Derek found himself getting angry. Couldn’t Stiles see, even for a moment, that they had his best interests at heart? They only wanted to protect him!

Which they wouldn’t even have to do if he could just keep himself safe. Rather than running head first into whatever danger they faced, without thought for himself.

It wasn’t that hard to stop and think!

Derek knew he was being unfair, and narrow minded even as he mentally ranted on, but seeing his pack in this condition because Stiles couldn’t grow up and act mature made him so angry his claws unsheathed themselves.

It took him a few minutes of long deep breaths before he could get it under control.

The pack had taken to the couches, curled up on top of each other as if they needed the support, and Derek felt that same flash of uncontrollable anger.

Derek sat down cautiously on the other end of the couch, instincts screaming at him to help, to provide for his pack, but he was at a loss.

And that was very hard to admit.

He tentatively stretched one hand out and let it rest on Isaac’s shoulder, visible under the pile of bodies all seeking reassurance. A tension-filled sigh could be heard as it was released, and soon after the pack unfurled from where they had been bundled together.

Derek left his hand on Isaac’s shoulder, and reached his other to leave it on Erica’s knee. Comfort through touch. A natural wolf instinct, and one even Derek, emotionally constipated as he was, could provide.

They sat like that in silence for the better part of ten minutes, just breathing in the same air and keeping close physical contact the whole time.

Derek couldn’t help but feel angry again at Stiles for doing this in the first place. Couldn’t he just feel grateful that they had tried to help him? That they had cared enough to separate themselves from him even though it hurt?

But, no, he couldn’t. Had to go and hurt his pack. Thinking back over that sentence, Derek couldn’t be sure whether he meant his own pack, or Stiles’.

They would have sat like that for longer, but a sudden surge of scent outside forcefully dragged Derek’s attention. He knew that scent, but couldn’t quiet identify it…

Next thing Derek knew, Scott was at the door, his face a mask of shock and a small amount of horror. “Danny?!” He exclaimed, and when the boy pushed himself into the room it took a few seconds for the name and face to register.

“So,” Danny began, fidgeting lightly under the combined scrutiny of five werewolves and a hunter. He continued, pausing mid-way to emphasize the fact that he was quoting. “All I know is Stiles telling me ‘Hey, Danny, werewolves are real, Scott was bitten two years ago’, which frankly explains everything so much better than just a sudden growth spurt, ‘Then Jackson, then Isaac, Erica and Boyd. They all share a pack with Allison, who’s a werewolf hunter, don’t even get me started on the complexities of that, and fight supernatural crime. I think it’s time you were brought into the fold, because seriously, dude, the things you can do with a computer are amazing and they could really use your help’.”

Danny looked around at them somewhat helplessly, as if both contemplating the meaning of Stiles’ statement and trying to convey his complete lack of understanding Stiles in general simultaneously.

All Derek could focus on was the fact that Stiles had used ‘they’ not ‘we’.

Danny suddenly stared right at him and said, “Also Stiles asked me to tell you, and I quote, ‘If you bite him Derek I will kill you’.” Danny glanced at them all from the corner of his eye. “And I really want to know what that means, but if it’s some kinky werewolf thing, don’t tell me. And from the way Stiles said it I wouldn’t put it past him to kill you, so, and I can’t believe I’m saying this, maybe you should do what he says.”

Derek took a deep breath in through his nose. He didn’t know what the hell Stiles thought he was doing, telling Danny everything, but if he vouched for him then Derek didn’t really want to get on Stiles’ bad side by killing Danny, not that he would. Had never wanted to be on Stiles’ bad side, but somehow always ended up there.

Derek took a second to glance around at his pack, and then back at Danny.

Jackson was going to be delighted.

And, it was true that they could use the help.

So why did Derek feel like he was just a pawn in Stiles’ plan?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey people of earth! Or maybe you're not from earth, I don't mean to discriminate.  
> So yeah, this chapter was fun to write, because Stiles finally *finally* gives the pack a piece of his mind which I've been waiting for since Season 1, and still hasn't happened yet, sigh.  
> But anyway, yeah, I decided to bring Danny into the fold because hey, Danny's awesome, okay?  
> For the purposes of this fic everybody is the same age, as tagged above, because I really wanted them all in the school and Senior Year seemed like the perfect choice.  
> My sincere apologies to everybody who likes the canon version, but it's not that big of a change... I don't think.  
> But I digress.  
> Stiles goes into vivid detail about his torture at the hands of, well everybody, but I think most of it is more on the emotional side of things? Warnings for graphic descriptions of violence, PTSD (kinda) and canon typical levels of violence in speech.  
> Plus, I wanted Derek to get angry so that later on when he and Stiles hash out their issues Derek honestly believes in what he's saying. But don't worry! Stiles is not going to let him get away with it like a lot of people commenting are worrying about!  
> Speaking of commenting, I want to say a huge, gigantic, offer-you-my-first-born THANK YOU to every single amazing person who read, gave kudos, bookmarked, subscribed or commented. Anybody will tell you how much easier that makes it to keep writing.  
> If you can't already tell, I'm terrible at the notes part of things so if I missed anything that needs a mention drop a comment and I'll put it in!  
> A final thank you, and now I have to go get something to eat before I decide to just screw it and order pizza. Not that I don't like pizza (I really, really do), but I figure it's important to have something relatively healthy once in a while.  
> Relatively.  
> So bye, and hope you enjoyed this chapter! Next one should be up in a few days (I want to say Thursday...?), which will have the first week of school and a meeting with Deaton for supplies!  
> Laters!


	5. We are watching reruns of old Joss Whedon shows and eating ice cream in our underpants because that is what friends are for. Well, I'm in my underpants but the meaning's the same. Hey, Lydia? Have you heard from Danny? Bet he's regretting that tequila...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Danny speaks wise words, Stiles both opens up and hides, and Deaton gets an unusual request. Plus, a little more on what Stiles is planning...

Danny took to the pack like a fish to water. Or maybe a wolf to a forest. Or virus to a computer. Or…

It was quite possible Derek was spending too much time thinking of metaphors. But it wasn’t like anybody could prove anything.

Danny did fit in well with the pack though, acclimating as if he was born to and getting on with everyone.

Scott and Isaac spent hours discussing Lacrosse with him, talking over the ‘finer points’ of the game. It was a language Derek just didn’t understand. To his ever-lasting joy.

Boyd liked him because he didn’t feel the need to fill every silence with mindless chatter, much the same reason Derek liked him.

Erica liked him because his eyes didn’t immediately zero onto her chest whenever she wore tight clothes like most boys his age, and also because he got on with Boyd on more than on just a casual acquaintance level, which was rare.

Allison liked Danny because it turned out he was outrageously funny, with a dry sense of humour that she could associate with even when she was in one of her darker moods.

He seemed like the perfect friend and pack mate.

So naturally Derek was suspicious. He knew Stiles, or at least he had, and there was no way he had done what he did without some ulterior motive. Which meant he just had to figure out what it was.

It was harder than he would have thought.

Danny had been unofficially part of the pack for a week, his membership beginning as soon as Stiles left him on the porch step, before he asked the question they had all been dreading.

“So,” he began, and every wolf in the room heard the way his heart lightly increased its tempo, “What’s the deal with Stiles?”

The low background hum of conversation stopped, the topic they had all been avoiding talking about finally out in the open, for better or for worse.  
Derek was fairly certain it was going to be for worse.

When no one answered after a few seconds of tense silence where everyone avoided eye contact Derek let out a breath. Of course it was going to be down to him. He mentally cursed his pack for putting him in that position, but if they heard him they showed no sign of it. Seemed like telepathy was still beyond his reach.

“What do you mean?” Derek asked eventually, lips pursed. No one ever said he was too proud to try plausible deniability. And if it could get him out of answering the question that had been echoing through his brain for over a year, then of course he was going to give it a shot. But no such luck, and Danny refused to be swayed.

“You know exactly what I mean. What the hell happened to him, why are you all avoiding talking about him, and why is it that when he sees any of you all he does is ignore you or glare at you like you’re mortal enemies rather than friends?”

Scott mumbled something into the coach cushion. It made Derek grimace slightly, but since Danny didn’t possess super wolfy hearing Scott had to repeat himself loud enough for human ears to catch. Hearing it a second time didn’t make it easier.

“We’re not friends. Not anymore.”

Rather than look ashamed at his question Danny just swirled a hand at him to continue. “And you’re not friends anymore because…” He prompted when no one spoke, his face a canvas of frustration.

Isaac laughed from the couch, a bitter unhappy sound that seemed to convey everything and nothing at the same time.

Danny nodded sagely. “That bad, huh?” He sounded so empathetic, so understanding, that Scott couldn’t help but speak up, buoyed on by the response they’d gotten so far.

“Yeah! I mean, Stiles was always getting himself into trouble, not thinking and running headfirst into danger, so we thought he’d be safer if he wasn’t in the pack, so we just-“

“Wait,” And that was Danny, his expression partway between incredulousness and mild horror, his hand coming up as if he could force Scott’s words to stop flowing with only his hand. “You… you forced him out of the pack?”

Scott looked defensive, in fact, everyone looked defensive, bodies tense and prepared for a fight that wouldn’t come. Derek stayed silent in the shadows, glad for once that he wasn’t in the thick of things.

“Well, yeah, but it was for his own protection and-“

To all of their surprise, Danny started laughing. Full on body-shaking, hysterical laughing. “Oh my god.” He muttered to himself over and over, “Holy shit.”

The pack shared a look of concern and uneasiness, because out of all the scenarios they expected after telling Danny the truth, this had never been one of them.

Finally collecting himself, and seemingly done with laughing, Danny raised his head. Not that they could see his eyes, they all flinched back. Danny looked furious.

“So, tell me if I have this right,” Derek got ready to intervene if Danny accidently set one of the wolves off enough to shift. They had all been on edge lately, and it might only take one poorly worded comment to set them off.

“Stiles, from what you have told me and what I’ve figured out myself, was the one who figured out the existence of werewolves, the fact that you, Scott, are one, the whole deal with Derek, how the help Erica and Boyd free from to the Alphas, basically everything supernatural. He risked himself countless times to save the pack, and I’m going to go right ahead and assume torture was involved at least once, and somehow that translates into you kicking him out of the pack? I just have one question. How stupid are you?”  
Scott frowned at him, but the blush that lit his face was impossible to miss.

“You don’t get it! It was for his own good!” Scott’s exclamation was met by vigorous nods from all pack members, leaning forward and trying to convince Danny that what they’d done was the right thing. Their only choice.

Danny sat back into the couch, shaking his head and huffing out a laugh. He rolled his eyes to the ceiling and clasped his hands together. “Maybe to you. But does he know that?”

Scott stopped where he was, face frozen as what Danny said sunk in. Derek was just about to dismiss the thought, because of course he did, but then…

Stiles wouldn’t know, would he? They had never thought to tell him. Had never deemed it necessary. But this was Stiles. To him, everything was his fault even if it wasn’t. Especially when it wasn’t.

For all Stiles knew they had let him go just because he was human, and humans were generally weak. How could he have known better?

But Derek just shook his head. Obviously Stiles knew. They had been pack for ages before he left, of course he knew just how important he was to them.

But the sinking realisation that came over Derek said otherwise. It swirled up in him, made him feel sick, because maybe Stiles didn’t know.

After all, when had they taken the time to show him? They had never said it, never acknowledged the fact that Stiles was so vital to their survival and happiness.

And Derek hated himself for it, in that moment. Out of all people, he should have taken the time to stop and tell Stiles what he meant to them, what he meant to Derek.

But he hadn’t, and he hated that he had let Stiles believe for even a second that he wasn’t the reason they were all still alive. That he hadn’t saved them all individually and together by just being himself.

Scott looked devastated too, and all of the pack went through the same phases as Derek had. Disbelief, contemplation, and, finally, horror.

Danny was still angry, practically steaming with it, and Derek admitted to himself that they all deserved it.

“I’m going.” Scott‘s head shot up from where he had been cradling it in his hands, turning to look back at Danny with eyes that emulated a begging puppy’s.

“What?” he yelped, and Isaac swallowed audibly. Scott shot him an apologetic look, before hurrying to ask again. “Where are you going?”

Danny laughed at him, audibly and with no little amount of vindictiveness. “I’m going to go apologize to Stiles for thinking it was his fault for him leaving, then I’m going to spend the next few hours getting him drunk and complaining with him about all you idiots. That ok? Yeah? Thanks.”

Scott whimpered from the couch, and Erica and Isaac’s eyes widened to the point of comicalness. Danny softened when he looked at all of them, and sighed as if the weight of his world was on his shoulders.

“Right, guys, I’m going to tell you something that on your own would take you forever to figure out. You’re wrong, Stiles is right. He might not accept your apology, but it’s better than nothing. And I’m not leaving the pack, so stop looking like someone was just killed. You might have been in the wrong, but as cliché as it is, your hearts were in the right place. So for God’s sake don’t act high and mighty, you get down on your knees and beg for his forgiveness, because that’s the only way you have a chance at it. I’ll talk to you all later.”

Derek was silent where he was leaning against the wall, listening to Danny’s fading footsteps as he walked to his car and stepped inside.

Scott was biting at his thumb nail, the little furrow between his brow the main indication that he was thinking fiercely. Isaac, Erica and Boyd were exchanging looks, and Allison was nibbling on her bottom lip.

They were all deep in thought, and Derek could only assume from the pensiveness of the room and the vague emotions he could feel through the bond that they were all concentrating on what Danny had told them, and, almost against his will he began to feel bitter.

They all seemed to be forgetting that Stiles had left. Had left them, left Beacon Hills. He could have stayed, could have fought to stay in the pack, but instead he just left!

He didn’t leave a note, there was no reason for his disappearance, they were on the verge of panic when he just vanished with no sign and, what? That was just okay?  
They were only trying to protect him! And he had no right to be angry, anyway.

Derek’s thoughts were going around in circles, echoing and repeating and bouncing off each other like birds in the whirl of a hurricane.

So he tried to shut them up by announcing an impromptu training session to his silent Betas. Maybe throwing people around and getting rid of some of that restless energy would help shut up the voices in his head.

And that sounded a lot crazier when he put it in words.

Why is it that that always happened?

 

…

 

“Stiles!” Lydia came marching into the house, waking him up from his light doze. His eyes were bleary and the world around him was blurry and unfocused.

“Waz’at?” He rasped. Wow, god, what time was it? And why was he on the couch?

His memories of the night before were fuzzy. And non-existent, if he was being honest.

Lydia tapped into the sitting room, the clack of her heels on the hardwood floor brutally pounding into his brain. Stiles could just see her feet from where she paused at the edge of the couch, his head pillowed on his arms.

“Stiles.” She said, her voice softer, before gently pulling his face out from where he had been hiding from life.

He groaned at the brightness, and then half-heartedly pushed himself into an upright position. Lydia primly used the edge of a blanket to clean the couch beside him, and then sat down just as primly.

“So…” she said, observing the empty bottles of liquor and, for some strange reason, boxes of cereal that were littered on the floor around the couch.

“Aw, crap.” Stiles muttered as he looked at the mayhem that used to be a usable living room rather than the kitchen of a frat house. His dad would freak if he saw it like that. Good thing he had magic.

One anticlimactic hand wave later the waste and mess were sitting in a black bin bag by the back door and the fresh scent of vanilla permeated the house.  
In his hungover, partially conscious brain Stiles wondered briefly why it was that his magic always smelled of vanilla. He knew some of his friends that had different, for lack of a better word, flavours, of magic, but his hadn’t changed since he first began proper magic training.

Stiles lifted a hand to his throbbing head, and wiped his fore and middle finger across his forehead. A sigh of relief escaped him before he could contain it. Hangover removal was just one of the added perks that came from being a powerful mage. He could even do it for other people.

As soon as his head wasn’t trying to implode, and his pulse wasn’t trying to beat through his brain and make his ears bleed, Stiles finally looked at Lydia’s face.

She was watching him with something that looked remarkably like empathy in her eyes, a small smile lifting the sides of her lips.

She looked just as put together as always, make-up tastefully done, casual clothes that erred just on the line of too fancy. Stiles couldn’t help but smile back at her.

He himself was wearing only boxer pants, but was as comfortable in his quasi-nudity with Lydia as he had ever been. They had only seen each other a few times over the course of his training, the six months feeling like so much more time than it was when faced with not seeing your best friend, but after that they had met up at least once a fortnight, more if they could manage it and depending on what area Stiles was working in at the time.

They had shared hotel rooms, went swimming in their underwear at the beach, gone to the movies. Lydia had been there when Stiles officially graduated from his training, had been the first to congratulate him for getting his tattoo, and they were as close as to people could possibly be without being in a romantic relationship.

In a weird way, they were even closer than he and Scott had ever been, their friendship based more on mutual trust, communication and interest in the same things.

So, yeah, Stiles was comfortable being bare chested in front of her. What he wasn’t comfortable with, however, was feeling even more vulnerable than he had ever felt when fully nude. But Lydia saw everything he was burying, and not a word was spoken as she wrapped her arms around his shoulders.

It was an awkward hug, his height meaning he had to bend down and rest his head on her shoulders so she could reach around, but the comforting feeling of friend was worth every uncomfortable spasm of his muscles.

Stiles sighed and stuck a cheery smile of his face, trying to muster the cocky attitude that had gotten him his reputation. Judging by Lydia’s sympathetic smile he failed, but he felt marginally better for doing it.

Lydia, bless her, seemed to recognize that he needed to fake it for the day, and didn’t say anything.

Instead, she rolled her eyes at the now-clean room and raised her eyes at him. “So what was with the frat boy’s room?”

Stiles turned a full smile at her, because they were just that in sync. Any rooms full of alcohol and empty bottles were tied tightly with memories of a college party they had crashed back in the spring.

Stiles had gotten laid there. Twice. The first time by a guy he didn’t catch the name of, and the second time by a girl that turned out to be a faerie and the morning after was spent gleefully comparing spells and powers. He still had her number, and they occasionally met up to talk magic.

He had helped her out a few weeks later by getting rid of the Kelpie that was killing a lot of the locals in a nearby lake. She had repaid him by giving him a copy of her father’s bestiary, one that full to the brim with hundreds of supernatural creatures.

Lydia and he had spent hours one day pouring over it, learning all the traits and tricks that were useful in staying alive in the supernatural world. There was a lot of caffeine drunk, and a fair amount of whining that a certain creature was actually real. The whining had all been Stiles.

But, hey, flying heads that eat dead bodies? Skinless horses with human torsos on their backs that spread death? Cockerels with serpents’ tails that can kill you with a single look?  
You couldn’t make that stuff up, and excuse him if he wanted to have a minor freak-out for every new species he found that could easily kill him with one stroke of bad luck.

But then came the Red Hood, and he found he could fight them all if he knew enough. When things got dangerous, or more accurately, more dangerous than usual, he was sure to send all the valuable things he had collected to Lydia to take care of.

Like the hair from a unicorn’s tail, the shell from an underwater castle that was given to him by a mermaid with bright gold eyes, the smallest scale off of the dragon’s underbelly that he got when he saved his life… Precious things because of their meaning to him, rather than the price they could fetch.

And he had enough money to put himself through college ten times over at this rate. People might be surprised by how desperate some people were to avoid confrontation. A lot of creatures just wanted to do their own thing, avoid interacting with other species’, like the merpeople, the centaurs, the nymphs.

But sometimes they didn’t get what they want, and some creatures lived to cause chaos and pain. That was why he was there. Demons, in particular, were his specialty.

But he was different that a lot of other mage mercenaries that had come before him. If there wasn’t proof of guilt, he wouldn’t go near them. Residual ideas of justice and what was right that were left over from growing up with the Sheriff as a dad.

Some of the creatures he was called about were just looking for a bit of fun. A bit of action in their otherwise dull lives. And it seemed hypercritical of him to judge them for acting up when him acting up had started the whole werewolf fiasco in the first place.

If he hadn’t snuck out that night to find the body in the woods, then Scott would never have been bitten. Derek would never have met them. Stiles would never have realised how much potential he had. And he would never have met the amazing people, and lived through the amazing experiences that he had. It seemed, to him, a small price to pay.

So unless they were actively and knowingly killing other beings, or causing excess pain or harm, then Stiles let them be. Supernatural creatures go through their rebellious teenage years too, right?

And the nymphs were fully capable of berating the dragon twins for nearly burning down the forest. He hadn’t been needed, and if there was no trouble then he didn’t want to butt in where he didn’t belong. But Lydia had nearly killed him for it afterwards.

How was he to know that there was a special maths award ceremony being held in a hotel nearby that was cancelled because of the fire? It wasn’t like he heard about those sort of things through the magic-users grapevine.

Although in fairness, he had heard about the faun that had run away with the elf, which was an equally as useless subject, and the vampire that seemed to have a drinking kink for alcoholics.

Personally Stiles just felt that he should go out and get wasted if he liked the taste so much, but apparently the blood ‘really brings out the whiskey, you know’? That encounter had been definitely in his top ten weirdest.

Stiles was almost certain that the vampire had been drunk and high when he had showed up, because he fingered his fangs for a good 20 minutes, but he didn’t know a lot of vampires, so maybe they were all like that all the time.

Hell, he might have looked like a teenager, but as far as Stiles was concerned he was the man/corpse of 234 that his girlfriend claimed. His girlfriend who was very much not a vampire. So very much not a vampire in fact, that she was a seal by birth. Stiles’ first introduction to a selkie and there had been a snoring vampire addict in the same room.

Yep, vampires snore. And when they consumed enough alcohol by proxy through blood, they apparently slept too, no matter what Twilight said.

One thing about immersing himself in the supernatural world was that Stiles could no longer read any fantasy or mythical books without laughing at all the inaccuracies.

It was really hard to find any correct information. But a surprising amount of supernatural creatures became fantasy authors.

Stiles liked to think it was to throw the humans off of their scents but it was probably just because they liked writing and got bored like every author ever.

Elves in particular seemed to have a flair for the more dramatic misconceptions. It was like a game. Who can become the most famous by using the most incorrect facts and information?

Technically, Stiles was part of an ongoing, and ever-growing betting pool that tried to guess who it would be. When he was at the place last the highest bet had been over one hundred thousand on an author nobody had ever heard of, but if google was anything to be go by that young Djinn was becoming quite well known for her fantasy series.

Stiles wasn’t sure why he went into training thinking it was all going to be pure and magical, but seriously, he was so wrong.

There was a whole week of training where all his teacher Miranda had him do was take different drugs and supernatural concoctions and then try and use magic clearly.

In her defence, it was now impossible for him to become so distracted, drunk or high that he couldn’t use his magic in the same amount of time and with the same amount of skill as he would if he was fully focused.

But it was still a miracle he hadn’t died.

Lydia coughed lightly and drew his attention back to the land of the living, pulling him out from where he had disappeared into his own head. She had a knack for it.

“So, what happened here last night?” She asked instead of questioning what he had been thinking of, something that he was insanely grateful for. It was too early and he was too un-caffeinated to try and explain his rambling train of thought.

Stiles screwed his face up in consideration and then relaxed. Searching his mind, he felt only somewhat better when he realised the night before hadn’t been quite as sad as he was dreading.

Then a heavy feeling rolled up in his chest.

“Danny came over and we got drunk. Turns out the pack kicked me out for my own good. Or at least that’s what they claimed.”

Stiles didn’t want to see Lydia’s sympathetic face, didn’t want to have to deal with what that meant, so he stood up and deliberated between getting another bottle of whiskey and getting coffee.

Scanning his mind quickly for last night’s memories he remembered they had emptied the liquor cabinet and he would have to get more before his dad found out.

Coffee it was.

Two steaming hot cups of black heaven later he settled back onto the couch with a two more, these two creamy and pale as tea. He handed one over to Lydia who took it and sipped once before leaving it down in the side table.

Stiles had a tradition when it came to coffee.

Two cups completely black to wake himself up in the mornings, followed by a creamy one that softened the buzz. Then regular cups at whatever intervals, usually black with just a spoon of sugar that got him through the day.

Depending in how much sleep he was running on, and how much stress, he could have up to and including four cups an hour.

He might have a small addiction.

Lydia looked him over as he swallowed down the mercifully sweet coffee as it was a healing salve, looked over his scars that had been joined by a new one since the last time they had seen each other, two criss-crossing lines in the shape of an ‘x’ that was roughly the size of a handprint, right where his heart was.

That had been a killer fight. Stiles chucked macabrely at his thin joke, hand coming up without thinking to rub at the scar as if it pained him.

It did, just more in a phantom reminder than any physical ache. Lydia knew vaguely what had happened when he had gone to face the demon, knew that he had managed to send it back to hell before anybody had died, but she didn’t know the exact details. She didn’t know that that was why he was here. Nobody did.

And that was the way it had to be.

Because he was leaving when all this was over. And they would never see him again. It was the only way.

Stiles shook himself from his grim brain and took another sip of coffee, trying to ignore Lydia’s eyes as they watched his every move. If someone had told him back when he still had a crush on her, before all this… this craziness that had become his life, that one day he would be sitting in his underwear on a couch with Lydia Martin drinking coffee, he would have called his dad and got them tested for illegal substances.

Gotten them arrested if they had gone on to say he wouldn’t try and kiss her.

But there they were.

“So, Stiles, what’s the deal with Danny?” Lydia looked at him in such a way that made him think that this was her actual reason for coming, that she had only stopped herself from asking before by sheer strength of will.

Stiles loved her all the more for it. He leaned his head into her lap and swung his legs up to rest on the arm of the couch, an action that would have caused past-Stiles to have a heart attack, but that now just made him feel calm.

She dramatically raised an arm and let it fall on his head, and slowly began running her fingers through his longer hair.

He let out a sigh as her fingernails scratched his scalp, reflecting on her question and how he was going to answer it.

“Danny’s a good guy.” He said finally, because it was true. Truth, no matter, what anybody tells you, is always easier to tell if you start with simple facts. Known facts. It takes a while to build up to feelings.

“He’s kind, and he deserves to know about Jackson, because they’re best friends. He was going to figure it out eventually, and this way he doesn’t have to feel left out or alone. Plus, have you ever pissed off Danny? He screws up all your electronics, and sooner or later the pack will annoy him and then mischief and mayhem are the themes of the day.”

Lydia’s fingers stopped where they were gently massaging his head, and she looked down at him sceptically. Stiles had to try really hard not to fidget under her assessing gaze, before she eventually continued her actions. Stiles didn’t release his breath though, because one of the most used and successful strategies was lure the enemy into a false sense of security.

And in a situation where she was trying to get him to open up, and he refused, they were enemies. For the moment.

A few minutes passed, and Stiles found himself drifting into that strange place in between sleep and awake. Unfortunately for him, that was where the nightmares lived.  
The nightmares of death and chaos and blackness that prevented him from getting any real peace.

In reality only a few seconds passed, but it felt like a small infinity. Stiles could feel his physical heart increasing its tempo just before a spell pulled him conscious. That spell had been one of the first he’d cast, a few days after turning up at the doorstep of the woman who would help him control and utilise his magic. It registered his body’s anxiety levels and pulse and woke him up if he accidently fell asleep, and consequently dreamed. Dream, nightmare, at this point for him they were one and the same.

The only sure fire way for him to get a dreamless sleep was a spell, or drinking so much that he passed out. Actions that he had taken multiple times when it became too much. His body had quickly adjusted to caffeine, and where before he would take a few cups before bed and sleep easy he was at this point left with alcohol or nothing. Too bad his tolerance was sky high.

Sties had a lot of practice hiding things, so when he next opened his eyes barely five minutes from the end of their conversation the only indication that he had ever fallen asleep, never mind almost had a panic attack, was his raised heartbeat that took a mere couple of seconds to lower again.

Controlling your body’s reactions to inward and outward stimuli had been another phase of his training. Not a very enjoyable one, but necessary none the less.

But just his luck, Lydia had seen the briefest spasm that flitted across his face from waking in an environment that wasn’t heavily cordoned with magic, or at least, wasn’t as heavily cordoned with magic as his apartment back in New York, his base of operations, and had pounced on the opportunity.

“Stiles? Stiles when was the last time you ate anything?” Stiles frowned at her upside down then smirked and said it was this morning.

“Coffee doesn’t count.” Was the received reply, and he grimaced.

“Then it was last night.” He hoped that his tone sounded flippant and casual, rather than carefully crafted to be a believable deceit. 

The truth was he couldn’t remember the last time he had eaten but it definitely wasn’t last night. Unless shots and copious amounts of alcohol counted.

Lydia didn’t call him out on his blatant lie, but she didn’t seem happy at all.

“So why did you introduce Danny to the pack? The truth, Stiles.” The truth? He couldn’t tell her the truth, not really, so he told her the next best thing.

“Fine. I don’t hate the pack. I should, and I did, but I’m over it. Just because they fucked up with me doesn’t mean they’re not good in their own ways, and they deserve to have Danny there to keep their heads on straight. I haven’t forgiven them for it, but I can understand where they were coming from, they were just coming from the wrong direction. If there’s a chance that having Danny with them will up their chances of survival? Then who am I to say different?”

Lydia observed him quietly, her head tilted to one side as she considered what he’d said.

“You still care about them.” She mustered up finally, no small amount of surprise and mild admiration in her voice, because all this time he had been acting like he hated them when nothing could be further from the truth.

Stiles smirked self-depreciatingly. “What can I say? I have a fascination with people who treat me like shit. But, yeah, I do. Against my better judgement, and I can’t just let them die. I don’t forgive them, I can’t, but I won’t be around forever and they’re going to need the help.”

Lydia had no idea how true that was. But Stiles preferred it that way. It was less dismal when people didn’t know you were going to leave again.

And Stiles could use a little more happiness in his life.

 

…

 

Stiles was sitting on the counter when Deaton walked in, his back to the wall and observing some very interesting herbs in jars. He led one such jar up to the light, watching the glittering flashes that reacted with the manufactured brightness of the florescent lights.

The vet sighed as he walked in, before knocking once on the steel table. Stiles’ whole body perked up and he hopped off the counter with an unconscious grace he had never possessed before, but that suited him.

“Deaton!” Stiles greeted, his teeth flashing as his face opened into a genuine smile. Deaton found himself smiling back, trapped in the face of the boundless energy and enthusiasm that had allowed Stiles to complete a decade’s worth of training in half a year.

Deaton was only a little scared of him.

“Stiles.” He replied, amusement and fondness lacing his tone without thought. They had corresponded a lot during the year Stiles had been away, and Stiles had answered a few of his questions regarding his experiences and magic. For his part, Deaton had kept Stiles well informed on the supernatural life in Beacon Hills, which, after that first disastrous two weeks, had been holding steady at the wolf pack and minor clashes.

The pixies had been the first real antagonistic force for more than a year.

Stiles slapped his pockets exaggeratedly as if searching for something, then waved a piece of paper in the air triumphantly as soon as he found what he had evidently been searching for.

Deaton merely smiled at the childish antics that seemed both out of place and completely at home on Stiles.

Deaton wasn’t sure what the paper was, or what was written on it, but knowing Stiles it could be anything from a list of ingredients he needed to a joke he printed off and wanted Deaton to see.

Unpredictability was the theme of the day when dealing with Stiles, even before you threw magic in the mix.

Deaton carefully moved the still open jars of herbs into the cache in the back of a press, where he stored all of his magic equipment that he might need quickly.

One of the jars sparked briefly, light shining a heavy hazel, before returning to normal. Deaton raised an eyebrow at Stiles’ carefully crafted innocent face before just shaking his head.

If Stiles wanted to imbue his herbs with extra magic then the retired magic user sure wasn’t going to stop him. His protective spells could use the extra little kick.

“So, Deaton, out of idle curiousity, if I gave you a list of equipment I needed, well, yesterday if I’m honest, but didn’t tell you the reason, would you still get me the things I need?”

Deaton was about to shoot back a cursory reply, before catching sight of Stiles’ face in the reflection of the glass. Stiles’ deadly serious, fight to the death face that was carefully and obscurely registering everything Deaton was doing as he thought over the request.

Deaton would like to say that such a request was unusual, but coming from Stiles? There had been weirder requests. Granted, he had never not known what the items would be used for, but if there was anybody worth trusting in the world when it came to the proper use of magic, then it was Stiles.

Still, Deaton thought carefully before replying. There were very few reasons for someone to actively hide what spell they were preforming, and even fewer that might realistically apply to Stiles. There was blood magic, an ancient art that, as the name suggested, required the blood of the caster to work, and dimension magic, which caused the multiple universes to collide and had only happened once in all of history.

But as far as Deaton was aware both those practices had been lost centuries ago. It was much more likely that the spell was a simple one, maybe one that Sties was embarrassed for casting, or even a basic revenge hex for the pack.

But then again, if anyone was capable of finding obscure texts that told of forbidden magics it was Stiles.

Deaton finally decided to take the list, because he did trust Stiles, and also because there was always the chance he would recognise the spell from the ingredients.

He nodded eventually, and held out his hand for the list. Stiles still didn’t hand it over immediately however, and his searching gaze bored into Deaton’s head with an intensity the old Stiles would never have been able to pull off.

“And, if by some crazy chance you figure out what the spell does, you must swear that you will not tell a soul. Not matter what.”

This was harder to agree to, because for all he knew the spell could kill anyone who came within five feet of Stiles with no warning, or even cause some apocalyptic event to unfold.

Deaton watched Stiles as he held deathly still, paper held reverently between his fingers like it held the very answer to the universe, and for all the information Deaton held it very well could.

It only took Deaton a few seconds to nod his head brusquely as a response, because if Stiles didn’t get the necessary equipment from him he would just go somewhere else. He had mildly unlimited resources at his disposal. For a human that was pretty new to the supernatural world he had contacts everywhere, and was remarkably connected to just about every species.

And, no matter what his training told him about blind trust and faith, Deaton fully believed and trusted Stiles. It might kill him, someday, that trust, but if anyone was deserving of it then Stiles had proved himself ten times over.

Stiles shoulders finally relaxed, dropping him back into the relaxed mage Deaton recognised, and he handed over the paper with a flourish that barely concealed the unwilling twitch of his fingers.

For whatever reason, Stiles was uncomfortable with parting from the paper, so Deaton gently raised it up to eye level to inspect.

He read down the list of ingredients, eyes widening at each new piece, jaw dropping at the sheer complexity and size of such a spell that it needed all these specific herbs and talismans.

This was the magical equivalent to a nuclear bomb. Deaton had never heard of someone who might risk it, never mind someone with the capability for it. There were rumours but…

“Don’t worry, I’ve done the spell before.” Deaton nearly fainted. To perform a spell of this magnitude, not once, but twice? And Stiles was obviously trying to be reassuring.

Okay, the fact that the first time hadn’t resulted in death was a good enough sign that doing it again wouldn’t kill either him or whoever the spell was meant for, but still.

If Deaton had to guess, he would say that the spell was a protective one, going on some of the items on the list that were usually reserved for defensive magic.

Maybe it was a spell that would protect Stiles? It wasn’t an unreasonable assumption, and Deaton felt slightly better for the thought.

Then it occurred to him that Stiles had to repeat the spell, so either it hadn’t taken affect the first time, or, terrifyingly, he had been under so much danger that it had broken. 

Maybe it had even taken him back from the dead.

But, when he started thinking about it, Deaton felt marginally better that Stiles was going to be alive for as long as possible.

He was their first, and only, line of defence when it came to the bigger things.

The longer he was alive and functioning, the safer for everyone.

Deaton lowered the paper and caught Stiles’ eyes. “I can have them for you in two weeks, one if you’re willing to go local for some of these.”

Stiles immediately shook his head. “No, take as long as is needed, but they have to be in perfect condition. I can’t risk this spell going wrong.”

Deaton only nodded. If his protection was on the line he would want to be certain too.

“Two weeks it is.” He confirmed, and Stiles sent him a relieved grin.

“Awesome!”

Deaton watched as he walked out of the clinic, light on his feet and a grin on his face.

He looked down at the list again, and sighed. He really hoped Stiles knew what he was doing.

He flipped the closed sign on the door and disappeared back into the back room. He had a lot of phone calls to make.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys!  
> So sorry about the wait for this chapter, couldn't get my head out of my ass long enough to write it until Wednesday, and then was busy all day Thursday and Friday, so I literally only wrote this one at a restaurant a few hours ago.  
> Hope you are all happy, you are making me be antisocial (even more than usual)!  
> All that aside, my classes are beginning again on Tuesday so what I might do is try and get a chapter a week? It'll depend, but I might just set a day that I post on, but I will get back to you on that!  
> Okay, wow, there's a lot in this chapter.  
> There are, not in any particular order, mentions of underage substance abuse, the taking of drugs or other substances as a learning experience for Stiles' magic, underage drinking, and there will be more!, a lot of caffeine drinking by Stiles, and just generally he takes really bad care about himself.  
> There are nightmares, a brief sentence to previous character death, a seriously epic, if I do say so myself, Lydia and Stiles bromance going on, and multiple new creatures.  
> Here are some of the ones I threw at you today!
> 
> The flying heads; In Bali mythology, Leyaks are hideous creatures that haunt graveyards and feed on dead bodies by night, but appear as ordinary humans by day.
> 
> Horse with a human torso sticking out of its back; In Celtic mythology, the Nuckelavee is a terrible sea creature, possessing legs which are partly finned, a horse's body, and a human head and torso growing out of its back. It was one single red eye, and has no skin anywhere once it's body. Said to be unable to cross running water, such as rivers. In folklore, it spreads disease and plague and causes crops to die.
> 
> Cockerel with a serpent's tail; One of the most feared Chimera (Creatures made of the parts of different animals) is the cockatrice. Resembles a large cockerel, with dragon's wings and a serpent's tail. Possesses a deadly stare that can kill people or turn them to stone ( A/N-Harry Potter fans in the audience will remember the Basilisk, and they're said to be closely related) and can only be killed by seeing its own eyes in a reflection., or if it hears a cockerel crow.
> 
> Kelpies; A mythical water horse that originates from Scotland. It lures a human onto it's back, and then dives into the deepest lake and drowns the victim. Said to take the form of a horse.
> 
> Nymphs; Minor female Greek nature deities that are generally regarded as divine spirits who animate nature, and often take the form of young beautiful women. They are said to be very sexually aware, and often can be found singing or dancing. (Percy Jackson fans know what I'm taking about...)
> 
> Selkies; Selkies originate from Scottish legend, and are said to have the ability to transform themselves from seals into humans. To do this, they have to take off their seal skins, then put them back on to turn into seals again.
> 
> Djinn; In the Islamic religion, Djinn are invisible beings created from fire. They can be either good or evil, having the same free will as humans and every other creature. Djinn's are more commonly known as Genies, but fortunately for them do not occupy magic lamps and forced servitude.
> 
> I'm just going to assume you all know what unicorns, centaurs, fairies, pixies, vampires, elves, dragons, fauns and mages are, but seriously, if you want to know more you'd be amazed at what google knows! ;) Personally, I'm fascinated with the things that go bump in the night.
> 
> Maybe I should clarify how the supernatural stuff works. In this fic, magic and supernatural beings are everywhere. They mainly keep to themselves, and don't interact with other species. Case in point, werewolves. There are a few packs, covens and tribes that have different species in them, the Hale's being one of them. Because of who he was, Stiles helped lots of different people and species, therefore he was very well connected. Mages have their own training system that they all have to go through, but Stiles, because of his power, managed it in half a year. Some of the people do interact with other's outside their own, and interspecies relationships or friendships are fairly common and accepted, except ones with humans. No species is fully 'evil', not even demons as will be demonstrated later. If anyone had any questions on this universe then drop a comment and I will answer it as quickly as possible.
> 
> Okay, now that I've poured over my book on 'the illustrated guide to mythical creatures', I'm pretty much done.  
> As always, a huge, unbelievably big thank you to every single person who read, kudos'ed, commented, bookmarked or just liked my fic. It means so much to me that I'm getting such a warm response!
> 
> Next chapter will be in a few days, and Stiles is going to call in a favour. Chapters might be shorter some days because of classes, but I will try my best to keep tem consistent!
> 
> I love you all, and hope you liked this chapter!


	6. You don't want to go into the future. I've seen it, and all it is is blood and battles and death. The only way to prevent that is to live in the present, and to fight for what you want the future to be like. It's a pity that few people understand that.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Isaac breaks down, Stiles admits that he isn't angry, and a flash from the past leads to troubling news for Stiles.

Isaac was the first of the pack to break. It was midway through Stiles’ third week back in Beacon Hills, and there had been little to no interaction between the pack and Stiles since that disastrous meeting when they cornered him.

Which, for the record, had not been Isaac’s idea at all. And his objections proved to be right, but at that point he was in no mood to point it out. Stiles’ statements had cut brutally close to the bone, but he could hardly be angry at Stiles for feeling like that. Not with every wolf instinct he had constantly whining to fix it, and, if the unusual radio silence from the rest of the pack was anything to go by, their wolves were reacting the same.

So as soon as his opportunity came, he grabbed it and held it with both hands and all of his werewolf strength.

The last bell had just rung, and Isaac was just about to head outside to beg a lift off of Scott when he heard it. The slightest uptick in Stiles’ heartbeat at the opposite end of the school, barely noticeable, hardly any cause for concern except that this Stiles, new Stiles, had the utmost control over his body and his reactions. Isaac knew that even after only spending a few hours with him in total.

Isaac was too embarrassed to ever admit out loud how he carefully tracked that specific heartbeat around the school every day, keeping half an ear out constantly, his mind always partially connected to the soothing thrum like it was a second beat in his own chest.

It soothed his wolf, and, if he was being honest, it soothed him.

Too many people had left him or hurt him over the years, Stiles had been one of the first not to and he had formed an attachment to him. Hadn’t really had a choice in the matter, what with everything that made him a werewolf screaming at him to get as close to Stiles as possible.

Until he had left. But it was different, in a way, when they had left him first. Isaac wasn’t sure how, but it was.

His wolf, for some bizarre reason, still felt as if Stiles was pack, and that only made it all the more difficult not to touch him every time they passed each other in the hall. It had been hard enough, nigh impossible, the first time around, and it was a special kind of torture after not seeing him for over a year to have to refuse his basest instincts again. For no good reason this time apart from his pride.

Which, let’s face it, wasn’t all that important to him to begin with.

So when that distinct heartbeat skipped a beat, he wasted no time at all in following it back to its owner with no plan of action just responses.

He found Stiles bent over against a wall, clutching his chest as if it pained him, face contorted. His breath was coming in long even inhales, and shaky exhales. His heart had returned to normal, but Isaac could smell the pain still clinging to him. Every hair on his body stood on end in the forced stillness of the room, the slight vanilla smell that lingered in the air.

Stiles was hurting. Stiles was Hurting, and that was not okay. That was unforgivable, and Isaac would gladly hunt down and rip apart anyone who dared to harm him, even if he could defend himself.

The whole point of pack was that you didn’t have to.

Isaac hesitated a second before announcing his presence, even though his wolf howled at him to make sure his pack mate and friend was okay. It hadn’t seemed to register with the wolf yet that Stiles wanted, rightfully and understandably, nothing to do with any of the pack, let alone him.

But Stiles was in pain, and that went against everything both the wolf and the man wanted, so Isaac cleared his throat.

“Stiles?” Stiles shot up like a cannon, face smoothed out and hand dropping back to his side as if nothing had happened.

“Isaac,” He greeted, and Isaac felt his heart clench up from the coldness he heard in his voice, the lack of the fondness that had always been aimed at him disorientating.

Isaac wanted to simultaneously curl up at Stiles’ feet and go off and kill everything that ever hurt him.

That indecision was what brought his mind back to what Danny had told them, and next thing he knew he was in front of Stiles with his arms wrapped around his waist, knees beginning to burn on the floor through his jeans from the rapid slide on the floor. They would heal though, and he couldn’t bring himself to care.

The scent that he had always associated with Stiles, with home and safety and comfort, filled his nose and he breathed out what felt like his first full breath since the day Derek had told them his plan to keep Stiles safe.

Isaac might be selfish, because he would much rather have Stiles with them then safe at home, even if it put him in danger. And Stiles could take care of himself.

Even more now than ever before with his magic, and it made Isaac feel insanely happy that Stiles was more than capable of keeping himself safe, that he wouldn’t have to lose him.

“Stiles.” He said, face pressed into Stiles stomach, delighting in the contact in the way only pack could, and his wolf wanted to roll over when Stiles’ arms came around him and hugged him. The hug was full of unspoken emotions, full of regret and hope and comfort.

“I’m so sorry.” Isaac found himself saying, the words pouring out of him before he could censor them in any way, a pure unadulterated plea.

“I’m so sorry, Stiles. I didn’t want you to get hurt but I didn’t think about it carefully enough and I couldn’t handle losing someone else, and I’m so sorry and I understand if you never forgive me but I needed to say it and tell you how much you helped me and I don’t care if you’re human, I never cared at all, because you are one of the best people I ever met and I’m so sorry and I never wanted to lose you or hurt you in any way and I really hope you had so much fun while you were away and I hope you met new people, much nicer people that us that deserve you but please don’t leave please please-“

Isaac was rambling, and his eyes were damp even though he couldn’t remember when he started crying, but this was the person who had helped him. Who had seen how damaged he was and didn’t flinch away. His friend, and for all intents and purposes, his brother.

Isaac wasn’t ashamed of his reaction. Stiles had been one of his closest friends, more family that anything else, and he was everything Isaac wasn’t.

Brave, selfless, intelligent. The irony was that Isaac had been trying to emulate him when they left Stiles out of the pack, trying to focus on what would be good for Stiles and not what he wanted.

Isaac’s arms clutched tighter, and Stiles gently stroked his hair in his fingers and it made Isaac think of pack and home. The torrent of words didn’t cease, the weight lifting off of his chest with every syllable that fell from his lips.

“I can never tell you how sorry I am and I can’t expect you to forgive me but I still think you’re pack and it was killing me knowing I might have hurt you at all and I was trying to be like you and selfless but I still think you’re pack and you’ll always be my pack and my friend and I’m so sorry that we were so stupid and we should have talked to you and thank you for saving us again with the pixies like you used to and I’m sorry I never visited you in the hospital but I was terrified you might be angry at me for letting you get caught and I thought if I didn’t see you then you couldn’t tell me you didn’t want to be friends anymore and I didn’t want to bother you so please please don’t go again and I know it’s unfair to ask you that but even just hate me but stay and you’re like my brother and-“

He was cut off by Stiles raising him up by the shoulders. Isaac felt so guilty and ashamed that he avoided looking at Stiles at all, preferring to try and savour the contact before Stiles was going to yell at him.

But Stiles just clasped his neck and commanded in a low voice, but not unkind, “Look at me, Isaac.”

Isaac was helpless to resist it, like the command of an Alpha, and slowly raised his eyes to Stiles’ expecting anger and hatred.

But there was none, and Stiles searched his eyes in silence for a few seconds before folding him into a hug again, Isaac’s head at the junction between his neck and shoulder. Stiles’ pack scent, filtered with traces of magic and power that sent Isaac’s blood abuzz and his wolf lowering its head in submission, comforted him in ways a non-pack member could never dream of understanding.

“I don’t forgive you.” Stiles murmured into his ear, and Isaac stiffened at the declaration, sure that Stiles was going to sneer and yell at him again, but Stiles rubbed his back until he calmed into the touch once more, “But I can understand why you did what you did.”

Isaac let out a shaky breath, relief filling him like nothing he had ever felt. Tears kept slipping from his eyes and he knew that if his father could see him now he would have gotten the beating of a lifetime.

But his father wasn’t around to control him anymore, and Stiles was still hugging him, and it made the world a little brighter than it had been before.

Isaac openly wept into Stiles’ shoulder, and it didn’t occur to him until much later that he had been treating Stiles like his Alpha. But by that point it was practically too late.

 

…

 

Stiles was… well, maybe happy wasn’t the right word for it, but he was comfortable for the first time since his return.

Things with Isaac, after he had apologised profusely every few minutes to the point where Stiles threatened to lock him out of his house and ‘leave his werewolf ass to fend for himself’, had been very pack-like and soothing.

Isaac had, completely of his own accord, trailed Stiles home after the tears at school and looked so miserable that Stiles cracked and invited him inside the house.

It took a few seconds to allow him to cross the mountain ash barrier that surrounded the entire house, but Stiles was nothing if not in control of his own magic and powers, and they were both safely encased inside the house before the drops of rain that had just begun to darken the clouds began to fall on the pavement.

They had started an Iron Movie marathon, because Stiles had been both outraged and personally offended that Isaac hadn’t seen any of them, and for the duration of the entire three movies, and four bags of popcorn, Isaac kept close physical contact with Stiles.

Including, but not limited to, resting his head on Stiles’ shoulder or thigh, leaning back against his legs from the floor, or wrapping his arms around Stiles’ neck like if he could just hold on that much tighter he would never leave again. Stiles allowed himself a moment to pointlessly wish the same thing.

Having dealt with both Scott, who even as a human had been touchy feely and barnacle-ish, and the pack before, he knew that it was a very important part of being a pack, that contact. And Isaac whined pathetically whenever he moved away, so in the end Stiles just laughed and pulled Isaac’s head onto his lap, stroking his hair as he did so.

He felt a strange surge of protectiveness when Isaac closed his eyes, a mixture of the trust he was being shown and the memories of what Isaac had had to live through before, and even after becoming a werewolf.

He kept his hand on Isaac’s head for the rest of the movies, and that was the way Lydia found them an hour later, Stiles passed out on the couch and Isaac happily asleep.

The nightmares that came in that hour were barely terrifying, nothing like the ones he had had before, so his heartbeat was steady and his magic didn’t activate.

That was until he was shocked rudely awake by someone throwing something sharp at his face. His wards warned him before it got even half a foot up to his face, and stopped the object mere millimetres from his eye.

Raising one eyebrow, Stiles turned to face the owner of the high heel, which he knew because he could actually see again, that was floating in the air where it would have impaled him if he was any slower.

Lydia was sitting unrepentant on the armchair, arms crossed over her chest.

She glared at him, her eyebrows scrunched up on her face in an expression that Stiles was very familiar with. It was the same one she’d worn the first time he’s taken down a rogue omega by himself, the same one that had been mixed with incredulousness and disgust when he decided to have a pizza with everything on it.

It was Lydia’s trademark, what-the-hell-are-you-thinking-Stiles, usually followed by snarky comments and thrown objects.

Or, in this case, the object throwing came first.

Stiles flicked her shoe back at her, watched as it slowly passed through the air and came to a halt above her hand, floating as if it was a perfectly natural thing to do. She had known it wouldn’t touch him, but that his magic would wake him regardless in the face of a threat, no matter how miniature.

Looking down at the still sleeping Isaac, whose face was slack in the throes of sleep, Stiles flashed a grateful smile at her for not waking him up with her usual fanfare.  
With his hearing, no doubt any voice at all would raise Isaac from his sleep, and it was nice that even while beyond mad at the pack Lydia could understand and changer her actions to suit that.

Lydia frowned at him while she reached out and wrapped her hand around the floating shoe, but she released a small smile when the shoe resisted her pull and instead slid down to her feet and slipped onto her heel.

Stiles grinned at her, and proceeded to mentally warn his fifteen year old self how one day he would put Lydia Martin’s shoe on her like some sort of Cinderella tableau. Without using his hands.

But if he told his teenage self that it was more than likely he would take it completely the wrong way. Without using any part of his body. That sounded marginally less sexual, and therefore better when talking about your closest friend.

Lydia jerked a head towards Isaac’s sleeping form, then the kitchen. Stiles nodded once then carefully extricated himself from the werewolf clinging to him like a leech, putting a pillow underneath his head in lieu of his torso. Isaac mumbled incoherently in his sleep and snuggled further into the pillow, his head burrowing into the fabric with all the cuteness of a fluffy, adorable kitten.

It seemed like that at least hadn’t changed while he was gone.

Stiles followed Lydia into the kitchen, the clacking of her high heels muffled by the carpet.

They reached the kitchen, and took their usual places at the table. Stiles absentmindedly weaved ropes of air together under his fingers, their iridescent shimmering strands joining and separating like melted quicksilver.

Lydia looked pointedly at the braid made from magic, and Stiles blushed. He hadn’t even realised he had been doing it. The nervous twitch had been developed somewhere around his second incubus, a way for him to confirm that reality was still what he saw. Maybe using magic to determine reality was a little bit crazy, but no one could recreate the braids he made, and therefore it was a trusty fail safe.

The braid dissipated into thin air (because that was what it was made of) and Stiles and Lydia shared a mutually challenging staring contest.

A few years ago, hell, a few months ago, Stiles would have cracked ten seconds in, if he even lasted that long. But he had faced far worse, with far more dire potential consequences, than Lydia Martin.

Few came to mind, but Stiles was fairly certain they were there. Probably.

They both conceded a draw when their competition reached the embarrassing length of ten minutes, a personal best. Not ten minutes without blinking, but ten minutes without looking away from the other’s eyes.

The worst thing with their contest was resisting the urge to laugh, but it was a good peace-keeper, in a way. Whoever lasted long enough got to decide the outcome of whatever they had been arguing about.

That was how Stiles had gotten Lydia to watch Star Wars (she loved it, but hated that she loved it, and Stiles had discovered his copies missing the next time he went back to his apartment), and how Lydia had managed to get Stiles to get a manicure with her (He had been planning on going with her anyway, but she didn’t need to know that).  
But there did come a certain point when the game had to be called off, no matter if there wasn’t a winner, and that point was when the rest of the world began to blur around the edges and Stiles panicked because it was like the demon all over again.

Lydia graciously didn’t mention it when he flinched and his magic left a scarlet trail in the air above his heart.

After a few silent seconds of calming himself -the heck down, relax you’re not in danger here-, Lydia spoke up.

“So… Isaac, huh?”

Stiles smiled with false bravado, and quirked an eyebrow.

“Isaac.” He confirmed, tone carefully neutral because he knew it would drive her nuts.

It did. “Really?” she asked, voice brokering no argument but her eyebrows so scrunched up she reminded Stiles of Derek. Who he definitely wasn’t going to think about. “That’s all you have to say? The pack were assholes to you and you just forgive them? I thought better of you, thought you had more self-respect!”

Stiles flexed his jaw once and kept watching her. “You done?” he asked finally, and Lydia jerkily nodded at him, face still a mask of confusion and anger.

“First of all, it’s just Isaac, and it’s only because he apologised. He apologised, Lydia,” he repeated, upon seeing Lydia’s doubtful face, “And this is Isaac. He was scared for me, and yeah, he made some pretty shitty decisions with how to deal with that, but he’s practically a puppy with how he acts. And I’ve missed him. The pack bond is still there, broken, but there, and I never said I forgave him. But I can understand why he did what he did, and how many times did I lie to my dad to keep him safe? He could’ve chosen not to trust me again, but instead he accepted that I’d done it for good reasons, and I accepted I was in the wrong. How could I be so hypocritical that I didn’t offer Isaac the same courtesy?” Stiles looked away then, quietly finishing his short speech. “And it’s not like I’ll be around long enough for him to get more attached, anyway.”

Lydia sighed at him, her eyes wide with compassion and understanding. She, better than anyone, knew what it was like to feel like you had no choice but to accept the situation, but she was a brilliant example of getting your shit together and dealing with whatever the universe threw your way. Lydia had managed to pull through everything even with no plan, and if it left her a bit of a preparation maniac, then she had every right.

Stiles already had a plan. A shitty one, a desperate one, but a plan none the less.

“Okay, Stiles. I just hope you know what you’re doing.”

Stiles rubbed one hand over his face and through his longer than before hair, and let his head fall back until he was watching the ceiling instead of the banshee who could see right through him. Just in case she saw something he didn’t want her to.

There was a part of him, albeit a small one, that wanted to confess everything, confess to his idiotic plan, to the danger they were all in if he didn’t pull it off, to how much he wished there was a better way, and easier one. But life didn’t work like that, didn’t give out perfect solutions whenever things were bad, and Stiles stayed silent.

He could hear Lydia walking back into the sitting room, and took the moment alone in the kitchen to wallow in the crappitude that was his life.

“Me too.” He murmured, but no one was around to hear.

 

…

 

*15 MONTHS AGO*  
Stiles hadn’t slept properly in weeks. Getting any sleep at all was a difficult enough feat to accomplish when sleeping in the back of a jeep, never mind with the increasing nightmares that had haunted him since he left Beacon Hills.

Nightmares of the pack being killed, his dad being murdered, his magic going berserk and killing everybody, Beacon Hills in flames, monsters of all breeds going on murderous sprees every waking hour…

He was lucky to fit in any peace at all, between the hellish nights and the days when he couldn’t face what his life had become.

His phone, in that first week, had been bombarded with texts from everyone, the bi-hourly ones if he was lucky from Scott, from Isaac, from Erica, and the daily ones from Allison, and Jackson and Derek. He didn’t even bother opening them as his phone dinged away.

The only ones he responded to were Lydia and his dad, brief, one worded responses to questions of well-being.

He had typed ‘fine’ more in the last week than ever before, and never had he meant it so little.

It was starting to get to him.

Deaton had given him the address of his contact, so there he was, driving up this enormous fucking driveway at five o’clock in the afternoon because he hadn’t slept in three days and was surviving on cheap truck stop caffeine that came in those terrible plastic cups that were of no use to anybody.

It seemed that college had come early on that front.

The front gate had (creepily) opened automatically when he pulled up to it, which was about 2 minutes ago. And he was still driving up the lane.

God, this driveway was long. And he couldn’t even see the house, because he was surrounded on both sides by trees and a forest. It reminded him of the Preserve, and he gunned the jeep’s engine in response to the unwanted reminder of the reality of his life.

No thinking about Beacon Hills. Beacon Hills was off limits. Thoughts of the pack were forbidden.

But because Stiles had never been good at following orders, he couldn’t prevent the steady stream of consciousness devoted to the pack and all he had left behind.

The same thought would be wondering what his father had had for dinner when he wasn’t there to force him to eat healthy food, and berating himself over ever trusting the wolves.

It was an emotional rollercoaster, and Stiles hated every second of it.

So, naturally, as soon as he started treading dangerous territory, the house came into view.

But Deaton had seriously, really, grossly understated it. The ‘house’ was more like a mansion. In fact, and Stiles had no shame in admitting it, his first thought was that it looked like the Xavier School For Gifted Youngsters, and really considering his current situation that was way too ridiculous.

He sternly told himself that when he met Deaton’s ‘friend’ he wound refrain from mentioning the startling resemblance her home had to the one in the Marvel Cinematic Universe.  
It probably even had secret passage-ways.

Damn it, brain, stop picturing the similarities between a home/school for mutants and a… home/school for supernatural beings.

If Stiles was in X-men, did that mean Derek was Logan?

Wait, no the D-word was forbidden! Stop thinking about it!

Luckily, he was knocked off his self-abuse by the fact that he had reached the end of the road, so to speak.

The house looked condemned from this close, empty and unused. Stiles frowned and reached into his bag for the paper that Deaton had scrawled address on, but as soon as he turned his head, the entire scene outside his window changed.

Perplexed, Stiles faced outwards again, only to see the same dreary dilapidated house he had originally. Slowly, he twisted his neck around until he could only see it from the very corner of his eye, and right at that point the house’s appearance changed again, now bright and welcoming.

Stiles smiled for the first time in over a week, and even though it was weak compared to his usual ones, it still felt like a huge achievement.

Clambering out of his jeep with no further thought, Stiles walked right up to the front door and though the mountain ash barrier that he could feel as it slithered across his skin, raising every hair on his arms and the back of his neck.

It felt vaguely as if someone had rubbed slime all over his body, and it was completely by accident that his magic too offense and reached out.

He didn’t even realise it was happening until he felt the barrier snap back, the uncomfortable feeling of being slowly inspected from the inside out thankfully vanishing.

The house resumed its natural state, and Stiles was standing in the hallway of probably the nicest mansion he had ever been in. Well, technically, the only mansion he had ever been in. But who was being technical?

A woman stood at the foot of a great staircase, gazing at him unblinkingly. He started guiltily, and his magic felt almost sheepish as it slithered back into his body. Sometimes his magic felt like more of a corporeal being that he did, even if it did retain many of his attributes, including some of the most annoying ones.

Like tact. Point him at a house and he could level it in a heartbeat if he was in the right shape of mind and his magic felt like cooperating, but the smaller things that involved delicacy?

He was more likely to light the tree on fire than break a branch.

How he knew this was from trial and error on his unplanned road trip, stopping every few hundred miles for food and ‘training’. He wasn’t arrogant enough to believe he didn’t need help.

“You must be Stiles.” The woman said, and regardless of the fact that it clearly wasn’t a question he nodded. Her voice was musical, and echoed through his ears like she continued speaking in his head. She was wearing simple clothes, loose fitting black pants and a tank top. Her hair was pulled up in a loose bun, short strands of it framing her slightly wrinkled face.

At a push, Stiles would say she was no older than 40, but something in her eyes told of a lot more experience that her image would suggest.

“And how was your trip?” She had a manner of speaking that seemed to avoid questions, and for a long second he was unsure if she wanted an answer or not.  
Deciding to do what he did best and speak, Stiles cleared his throat once, shocked to realise that he hadn’t spoken a word since his teary goodbye to his father eight days ago.  
When his voice did come out, it was hoarse from lack of use, and thick with emotions he had more trouble restraining than his magic.

“F…Fine.” He croaked, but even a non werewolf could tell the lie and she was shooting him an unimpressed look that reminded him too much of Lydia, and home, so he quickly elaborated.

“I mean, the nightmares every night were pretty shitty. And sleeping in my jeep was harsh on my neck, but other than that I can’t complain.”

Instead of smirking at him, or smiling like he expected her to, the woman immediately frowned and looked worried.

“Nightmares?” She questioned, and her tone of voice made Stiles jolt abruptly. Because that tone never delivered good news.

“What kind of nightmares?”

Stiles watched her anxiously, his voice coming out more harried than he would have liked. “Of monsters tearing my home town and my family apart.” Family meant so much more than pack.

The mage wiggled her fingers at him, gesturing towards his head as she asked, “May I?”

Lost, but too worried to deny her even under the risk that it was a trap of some kind, Stiles practically ran towards her as response.

She raised her hands to his head, forehead furrowed in concentration, and the world was eerily quiet as she did so.

The she gasped, and paled, and took a step backwards, almost tripping over the thick carpet.

“No, no.” She murmured to herself, her eyes glazed over. Stiles felt the beginnings of a panic attack coming over him, and he barely resisted the urge to shake her and demand answers.

“No, that can’t be true, that can’t happen. It must just be a possibility, there must be something that can be done.”

“What?” Stiles’ fists curled at his sides, his magic sparking and igniting without any thought from him. “What’s going on, what’s happening?”

She seemed to shake herself, composing her face into one of edgy tranquillity.

“Just a thing. Nothing to worry about.”

Before Stiles could think over it, his magic had exploded out of him, shaking the house at its foundations. He was so sick of people lying to him! He knew that something had happened, and he needed to know what it was so he could fix it!

The woman grabbed his arm in one fluid movement, jerking him from his magic. He looked down at her, her fingers tight against his skin as she watched him with unflinching eyes.

“What you saw was no nightmare. There’s a story, nothing more than myth really, a fairy tale, that very powerful mages have the ability to see the future. But even then it would be nothing more than fragments, then possibilities. Nothing in the future is set in stone, so just because you know the trajectory you’re one doesn’t mean you can’t change it. There’s nothing to worry about, and in all likelihood they were just nightmares, not foreshadowing.”

But Stiles had a sinking feeling deep in his chest, an instinct that was telling him the truth of the matter, the same one that had warned him of Scott being a werewolf, and Derek being a ‘good guy’.

And that instinct was ringing like church bells at a funeral.

“What…” he began, but his voice broke and he had to start again, “What would that future be?”

The mage, the woman who would become his trainer glanced away. “Beacon Hills as a war zone and a graveyard. That was the image you saw.”

Stiles released the breath that had been holding itself for forever in his chest. The woman was quick to reassure him.

“But it was just a nightmare. No one with clairvoyant abilities has ever been recorded, and the idea of it is little more than fantasy.” 

Stiles murmured an assent, and felt glad that no werewolves were there to catch the lie in his heartbeat. Resolution settled firmly in his chest even as her face relaxed and she began the tour, showing him the room he would live in, and the gym and the surrounding gardens.

Stiles’ mind was only half listening, the other half busy jumping around and trying to find a way out of the hell he had glimpsed.

It was no good, he needed more information. “What about a library?” He asked Miranda (she had introduced herself along the way), trying to keep his voice light and unassuming. She smiled at him, so she must have feel for it.

Stiles was going to find a way to save Beacon Hills if it killed him.

 

(It was a week later when Stiles delivered to her the good news that the nightmares had ended, and even though she had flat out denied the plausibility of someone having teh ability to see the future she looked relieved.

He very purposefully didn’t mention how he had managed to change what should have happened, and he said nothing about how his own future became impossible to read after changing Beacon Hills’ intended destruction.

But he saw enough of the future to know that the spell would work, had worked, that Beacon Hills would be saved, and that gave him the strength to do what was needed.

And if he still had nightmares, of blackness and inky nothing, it was a small price to pay.

A small price to pay indeed.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God I am so sorry for the delay in this! I already have the ending planned out, I'm sorry it will be angsty, and it's just about figuring out how to get there.
> 
> The last week has been insanely busy for me, and all anyone had been talking about have been the exams, which are 9 months away!! It is seriously freaking me out, and updates will be a lot slower now with assignments and essays to do. :(  
> But I will try my very best to update as often as possible!
> 
> This chapter is shorter than all the others, and I just hope it's not lacking.
> 
> The real fun begins with the next update, with some action, and fic length wise at the moment I'm lingering on around 15 chapters?
> 
> Oh! So the main point to this fic is that by the end of it the whole pack are reconciliated, and there will be one person every update who joins the *new* pack/Stiles 'pack', but really all it is is that they do their own version of grovelling liek Danny told them to, because hello, Danny's a genius. Who do you guys think will be next?  
> It won't be easy, automatic forgiveness though, so if any of you are worried about that don't be!
> 
> I did the whole flashback thing because it will be important for the story later on.
> 
> Also, I have no idea where Peter is in this fic, I suppose that he's gone off to some other country and is living a semi-decent life there. (He might join the story later on, I'm not sure yet)
> 
> Okay, I have to go now because I have this 12-week project due in four weeks and I haven't even got half of it done. Procrastination is my middle name.
> 
> Hope you liked this chapter, and any more notes that I can think of at a better time will be posted soon!  
> Love you all millions!  
> H.S.F


	7. If I had to choose between being a monster and being ignorant, I'd choose monster. Because chosing ignorance would rob other people of their freedom to choose, and what kind of a world would we live in if that happened?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles strengthens his circle, is forced to see the school counsellor, and Erica realises how much had changed.

School the next day was hard to go through. If anyone noticed the sudden appearance of Isaac back into the circle Stiles communicated with, no one dared to speak of it. Stiles was liking his new found ability to produce fear in even the most popular of seniors.

They were people who belittled him for most of his middle and high school career. Turnabout would be fair play, but that was much too much effort to expand on them. Stiles had other, more important, things to focus on than petty high school revenge.

Somehow, Stiles had gone from being the intimidating Senior who only spoke to Jackson and Lydia, to the still terrifying Senior who sat with Lydia, Jackson, Danny and Isaac at lunchtime. It kind of went against his plans, but he wasn't really in the mood to tell Lydia that. He probably would never be.

He had heard some very interesting rumours about the five of them, like that they were all in a polyamorous relationship, or that he was supplying them with drugs, or, Stiles' favourite, that they were in a secret band that no one knew of.

Not that the Freshmen who had been comparing ideas knew he was listening at the time. The expression on their faces when they realised he was behind them the entire time they had been talking was priceless.

But anyway, Isaac had apologized, and though the look Scott shot him was almost betrayed and definitely jealous when he sat next to Stiles and received no protest, both Erica and Boyd ignored them. For the most part. There was that one moment in chemistry when Stiles had looked up, feeling eyes on him, to Erica's searching gaze. He smirked at her, enjoying the quickest flash of her golden eyes before she hastily turned away.

But apart from that they hadn't been bothered, and Isaac had somehow managed to wrangle staying at Stiles' place for the night, which led to Stiles' nightly trek in the forests being later than it usually was.

Which lead to being raced down a steep ravine by a horde of angry ogres. The shitty thing was that it wasn't even his first time, but his previous experience definitely helped in terms of getting rid of them.

He lost them only a few minutes after picking them up, and retraced his steps back to his original destination. Deep in the preserves that surrounded Beacon Hills, lay a clearing that was never bothered, never found by anyone unless Stiles wanted it to be.

It was were the original boundary spell was cast and held, and, strategically speaking, the safest place in the entire town. And it was where Stiles would renew the spell that would save Beacon Hills.

He had been going every night for as long as he had been in town, having given up on sleep as soon as setting foot into Beacon Hills, apart from the occasional unplanned naps, and drug or magic induced all night comas. The latter was more common than the former.

And every night he showed up, he would pour just enough of his magic into the circle that there was no risk it would ever break, unlike the first one. But the circumstances where different now, and the circle he was creating for the second time had no chance of ever breaking.

It wouldn't be complete for another two weeks, at least, more if Deaton couldn't get the right equipment. The longer Stiles siphoned magic into it the better, but the other side of that was that he would have to be in Beacon Hills for however long it took.

Because of the last spell's failure, Stiles was taking no risk this time around, double checking and perfecting his own notes. The risk of it being a spell he had found from millennia ago and interpreted himself was much lower than the potential circumstances if he didn't cast it. The nightmares from the first time he left Beacon Hills, the visions, they were as true now as they had been when he swore he'd protect his town, and his promise still as binding.

Creating new bonds with his friends and re-establishing old had never been in the playing cards, never an aspect he had considered. And every day he spent not casting the spell was another day were someone got attached, and inevitably hurt in the future. His return had never been a permanent thing.

The sooner everyone accepted that, the better.

But Stiles was by no means selfless. If he was, he would have cut off all contact, ignored Lydia's insistence and his dad's wide eyes, the pack's begging and Danny's plight, locked himself in his room and completed the spell. That would have been the right thing to do, where no one but him got hurt.

But he hadn't done that, and he was neck deep in emotional attachments that he was going to have to snap to do what he came here to do. It sucked majorly, but it was better than the alternative. People would get over him, move on with their lives.

Lydia would become a famous mathematician and win the Fields medal, and Jackson would go off and be a famous sports player, or... an underwear model, and Allison and Scott would have a bunch of adorable kids running around with claws and arrows while Scott taught them how to control the shift and Allison showed them all how to handle guns, and Danny would go on to be, he didn't know, some super genius computer technician for NASA or something, Isaac would bond with someone outside of pack or Stiles and fall in love, and get to live the real college student experience, Boyd would finally get his head out of his ass and ask Erica out on a date (if Erica didn't get to him first), and Derek would stop blaming himself for Kate and the fire.

Yeah, Stiles had figured Derek's history with Kate out. He wasn't stupid, you know.

So that's what he would happen when he was gone, when they all realised they were better off without him. What should have been happening right then. But Stiles wasn't perfect by any stretch of the imagination. He was selfish, and he wanted to be near them all while he still could.

He had obligations outside of the pack, and no matter what, he knew, he would be gone forever when it was all over, but rather than save everyone the pain, he had caved. He knew he would regret it later. Would curse that the thought ever crossed his mind, that he had ever let them back in again.

But later wasn't then, and as Stiles siphoned his magic into the circle he was feeling morbid enough to think about it. He finally stopped, after draining as much magic as possible without killing himself (and wasn't that a funny thought), before he closed the circle behind him, hiding his secret once more in the shadows.

The trolls had long since vanished, just passing through, but Stiles knew they were only the beginning. Beacon Hills was going to get busy as the mixture of his stagnant magic in the circle and his live magic in his body acted as a super-powered magnet for supernatural creatures.

Stiles would be lying if he said he wasn't aching for a good fight. And he figured there was enough lies in his life without one to himself being thrown on top of the list. It was just a matter of making sure the pack didn't try and involve themselves in his battles.

Yeah, Stiles knew he was being optimistic. So sue him.

...

Stiles wasn't heartless. Sure, he had made some morally grey decisions in his life, but that happened to everybody even when it wasn't their profession. He tried to be 'good', whatever that meant, and he didn't kill anyone unless he had to. He ate his vegetables, and he buckled his seatbelt, and he occasionally donated obscene amounts of money to charity. Okay, yes, technically he tended to waver on more the 'dark' side of the spectrum, but that wasn't that big of a deal when faced with the destruction of the world.

He wasn't boy next door innocent like Scott, or puppy dog adorable like Isaac, but he wasn't exactly Peter levels of psychopathy either. The point was, that Stiles suffered from guilt and regret just like everyone else. He had just gotten better at controlling it in the heat of the moment.

So he was fully capable of killing someone without flinching, burning something to crisp or shooting them through their heart with magic. He could, and had, done it before, and no doubt he'd do it again. But that didn't mean he was emotionless.

There were days, if he cared to remember them, when Stiles barely gathered the energy to get out of bed. When his actions weighed down on him so much more than any demon had ever done.

And there were days when he overcompensated. When he bounded out of his apartment with a huge grin and a burning inside his mind.

In a word, Stiles was damaged. Damaged goods, damaged mind, just damaged. And it was funny, honestly, how very broken he'd been even before the werewolf fiasco. He knew it, his dad knew it, his therapist when he was ten and guilt ridden knew it. But Stiles was very good at hiding it. Had gotten even better over the years.

But what had never left him, was his ability to see the damage in others too. It was what first led him to condemn Derek for the murder of his sister, because he could feel his self-loathing in a way that wasn't quite human, wasn't normal. Derek was damaged too.

And so was Lydia, and Erica, and Isaac, and Allison, and Boyd, and Jackson, and Peter, and even Scott, in his own way. They were all so damaged, so broken, that the idea of completeness was nothing more than a fantasy, a whimsy that seemed so far off.

And how could Stiles be mad at them still? None of them were okay, in any sense of the word, he least of all. But the pack had each other, and Stiles couldn't afford to let anyone in when he was just going to leave again.

The idea that a human, a high-school counsellor, could understand any of that, was laughable.

Stiles didn't want to be there. Didn't want to be sitting in that office, surrounded by encouraging posters with slogans like 'Believe in yourself' or, 'Tell someone how you feel'. Didn't want to be facing someone so ignorant that they assumed they weren't, while he was silently screaming inside. So Stiles did what he did best. He bullshitted.

"So, Mr. Stilinski," she began, and Stiles was silently listing all the different ways he'd get back at the school for this, because it was a complete travesty and he had places to be, damn it. "Why are you here?"

And he knew that whatever he said would be recorded, written down in her sparkly pink notebook with careful notes on tone and body language, and really, the only place he would be sent if he told her the truth was a psychiatric ward. "Why am I here?" he asked, deliberately slowly and with a dangerous smirk hiding as a smile lifting the corners of his lips, "The real question is, why are you here?"

The counsellor, an older woman with a name tag that read 'Mrs. Markey', forgot herself for a moment and frowned at him disapprovingly over the rims of her oval glasses. "What do you mean, Mr. Stilinski?"

Stiles kept his smirk, knowing that every second he prolonged the silence was another that made her uncomfortable. "Why are you here? In this school, in this room, on this planet, whatever way you want to interpret the question. My reasons for being here are not what is truly fascinating about the human mind, but is rather a sub-reaction of the neurobiological and social expectations that our society encourages in children and adolescents, until we have adults that are incapable of conceiving of a higher notion than the one right in front of their eyes. I'm asking you why you are here, to demonstrate the single mindedness to which all people fall prey to eventually. Because your first thought on my question was not to answer it as you understood it, but to receive clarification on the question itself. Which shows that we as a culture need strict guidelines and rules to function because that was how we were born and raised to be. But if I don't clarify, if you had to answer my question solely upon the question alone, I'm curious as to what your answer would be."

Her eyes bugged behind her glasses, and Stiles sighed. Obviously no one had informed her of just how annoying and mentally whiplashing he could be, when he put his mind to it. Irritate Stiles enough, and give him time to run his mouth, and he would talk your ear and sanity off in the same breath.

But, Mrs. Markey was obviously a professional, and she shook off his statement with only minimal difficulty.

"Studies show that the people who talk the most are the people who have something to hide." She said, looking for all the world as if it was personally offending her to have to speak to him. Her attitude had changed remarkably quickly.

"Look, Mrs. Markey. I have places to be, and things to do, and none of them involve being psycho-analysed by a woman who looks as if she understands the brain of a teenager as much as we understand the basest functions of the universe. I understand the school insists I go to these little meetings, but I assure you there is literally nothing you can say or do that would convince me to suddenly pour out my heart and burst into tears, expressing how grateful I am to you for 'helping me overcome my scars'. You are incapable of understanding what I am, let alone what I feel, so I suggest we just end the entire enterprise. If it helps, I'll even say you made me realise things about myself I didn't know before, but right now I haven't got the time to deal with your pride and shallow ego."

With that final jab, Stiles stood up, unfolding his lanky body gracefully. He shouldn't have said any of that, but right then he couldn't bring himself to care. Without a word, he left the too brightly coloured office and stepped quickly out to where his jeep was parked.

He was on edge, shoulders tight and jaw clenched. But he wasn't too stressed to not pay attention to his surroundings.

He heard the almost silent footfalls and gentle swoosh of air before they got even a metre into his space. He waited, not acknowledging their presence until they were right behind him. His body was thrumming with the need to engage, to fight, to do something rather than sit on his ass and spread his magic.

Stiles had spent the last year in an almost constant state of alive-ness, adrenaline and giddy laughter all rolled into one, and he hadn't had a decent fight for weeks. It was beginning to drive him insane.

So when the strange person behind him moved as if to sweep his feet from under him, it was with an inappropriate sort of glee that he kicked himself off the ground and head first over their shoulders, until he was standing behind them. With a move that would have made amateurs cry, he smoothly swiped his attacker's feet from under them until they were both scrawled over the ground, a fistful of hair in Stiles' hand. With a grin, Stiles flipped the knife from under his jacket into the crevice of their neck.

"Now," he breathed, and his attacker shifted beneath him, obviously uncomfortable, "Who are you, and what are you doing here?"

It was in that breath that he recognised the energy beneath him, and he was up off his knees and at the other side of the jeep before Erica could get up from the ground.

"What the hell were you thinking?" he demanded angrily, fists still clenching with the need for a good fight. His body had gone from thrumming to flat out buzzing, and if he didn't get away soon he was going to blow. "I could have killed you!" he yelled at her, because it was true and she-they needed to understand that. Stiles wasn't the same, and sneaking up wouldn't get the reaction it used to. It was more likely to get them seriously hurt.

Stiles had no excuse for what happened next. Maybe it was how little psychical activity he'd gotten apart from trooping through the forest. Maybe it was more to do with the magic he hadn't used except for basics in weeks. Or maybe he was just having a bad day. They happened to everyone, you know.

Whatever the reason, when Boyd came up behind him, with Stiles' attention focused on Erica, and tapped on his shoulder, Stiles snapped.

...

Erica and Boyd didn't mean to cause the apocalypse. Truly.

Okay, so maybe trying to corner Stiles (again) wasn't the greatest idea in the world, especially when the memories of the last time they'd tried to were still fresh in everyone's mind. And Erica highly doubted that the fact they hadn't mean to do it would hold any sway in front of a jury of their peers.

But Isaac had barely been going to pack meetings, and whenever he did show up he smelled so distinctly of Stiles that it was driving them all crazy. The pack puppy had never looked happier, and even though he hadn't been outright avoiding them he spent most of his time with Stiles, doing whatever it was they did, than with them. Erica wasn't sure whether to be jealous or betrayed. The two were not mutually exclusive.

There was a small part of her, very small, that was beyond happy that Isaac had Stiles. That Stiles had Isaac. But the rest of her was way too emotionally involved in the entire situation to think rationally.

So Erica would be the first to admit that trying to catch Stiles unawares wasn't her smartest plan of action. But it had worked, hadn't it? Admittedly, she had planned to be conscious, but hey, you can't have everything, right? That statement was never more true than when she began to wake up.

Coming back to consciousness hurt. Like, a lot. She almost wished she didn't have to.

Her skin felt raw and itchy where it had pieced back together, her bones rattled and mushy. Moving was too much effort to even contemplate. And just the idea of speaking was rubbing her throat raw.

She felt as if someone had scrubbed her body with sandpaper, and, with her luck, it wouldn't be far from the truth.

But with the return of consciousness came the return of memories, and Erica almost groaned. How long was she out? And where was she? The last thing she remembered, apart from bright lights and pain, was the eerie glow of Stiles' eyes when he flung them all backwards. In an explosion.

That might possibly have taken place just outside the school for anybody to see. As long as no one had caught it on camera, they'd be safe. Great, now she had to go online and search through YouTube to make sure. Her to-do list kept getting bigger and bigger.

It took her a few long seconds to work up the will to open her eyes. A few seconds after that before she could see anything.

She was lying alone in a room, a room she quickly recognised as Stiles' bedroom. The sheets below her were a deep blue, and she could hardly turn her head. With a painful twist of her neck, she glanced over to the side only to see the revelation that she wasn't as alone as she'd thought.

Boyd was lying on another bed a few metres from her, his face blank, but his chest rose and fell with each inhale. The last time she had been in Stiles' room, it had only one bed and the walls were covered with the usual teenage tack, posters and sheets, all jumbled with the occasional police report or mystery.

Now, though, it was different. Very different. There were the two beds, small but neat, with army style tucked in covers and matching plain blue sheets. The walls were painted white, and on one whole wall stretched a giant map of the world, with little thumbtacks and notes stuck seemingly randomly all over. The notes, Erica could see, read something like this, '23-1-15---Coven, fourteen, pg.67 in J1, Mark 94 with a confirmed BSX, Status-Complete' and, '07-5-15---Demon, army, pg.45 in J3, Mark 01 with possible ZNH and confirmed UKL. Status-Mostly completed, follow K-Lead with requested confirmation, waiting response'.

It seemed liked gibberish, the occasional letters and numbers and signals all laid over and over each other, littering every part of the globe. But there was a method to the madness. Stiles was using codes, police, and Morse, and others Erica had never seen. It was a confounding mix of regular, sociopath, and Stiles. Erica was kind of in awe at it all.

Apart from the wall, the room was stripped bare of all personal touches, excluding a large desk that posed as a investigation board cum first aid area.

Stiles had enough medical equipment to run a small clinic. It was slightly worrying how well used the equipment seemed to be, particularly the needles and a black leather slab, around the size of Erica's middle and pointer fingers, that had human bite marks indented deep enough on it to leave permanent marks. Erica swallowed down the guilt at the reminder of what Stiles had had to live through.

Without warning, Stiles himself came strolling into the room, body fizzing with energy that, if she was in wolf form, would have made her fur stand on end.

His expression was carefully closed off, but his blank façade shifted infinitesimally when she saw she was awake. His shoulders loosened with something akin to relief, and Erica comforted herself with the knowledge that at least he wasn't actively trying to kill her. Small mercies.

"You good?" Stiles asked finally, avoiding her eyes in favour of scrutinising the map. Erica had no idea what he saw that she didn't, what connections or links could be made in the hodgepodge of Stiles' indecipherable writing. But he obviously saw something, clearly understood the deeper discrepancies and hidden meanings behind every point.

Erica nodded in response to his question, but still didn't sit up. If she was being honest, she was pretty sure she couldn't.

Stiles swallowed once and clucked his tongue, jerking his head back to the bathroom. "Umm, well, cool. I, uh, I gotta go make a call."

Erica nodded again, at loss for what to say. The tension in the air was palpable, she could probably cut through it with a knife. "Stiles," she called, because for some reason she couldn't just let him go, she had to say something, and instead of something reasonable came out, "Why'd you change your room?"

Stiles face twisted in a grimace, and it took Erica a second to realise that he felt guilty, that he blamed himself for what had happened at the school.

"Really, Erica? You want to talk about my room? I could've killed you! I nearly did! I'm not the same guy I once was, and you have to stop treating me like I am!"

Stiles' yell echoed and bounced off the walls, reverberating in Erica's ears. His voice was angry and indignant, but underneath it ran a current of fear, pain and guilt Erica was only all too familiar with.

"I know." She said instead, and it was if Stiles could read her sincerity because he forced himself to calm down, running long fingers through his hair.

"I'm going to go out for a walk." He muttered into the air, and Erica frowned. She didn't know what time it was, but what with both her and Boyd taking up Stiles' beds he most likely hadn't slept since the school. He needed to get some sleep.

She didn't say as much to him of course, but he did bark out a self-depreciating laugh as if he'd heard her all the same. Maybe he had.

"Trust me," Stiles smirked, and for the first time Erica truly noticed the dark bags under his eyes and the paleness of his skin, "If I could sleep I'd be out for the count. I'm going to go take my walk, and I'll be back within an hour, and then I have to make a call but if you still want to talk after that we will, okay? Feel free to eat whatever you find and use whatever you can touch in this room and the bathroom. I'll be back in a bit."

With no further comments Stiles left, leaving Erica to wistfully remember a time when everything was better, easier between them. But sitting around being wistful never helped anybody.

The thought of moving still hurt, and with nothing to distract her or draw her attention, Erica quickly drifted back to sleep.

Her last conscious thought was of the sticky note on the map in red, with one word written on it and a bracketed exclamation point. 

Demon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's late, I'm tired, I haven't read this over and I'm sorry, I'll probably write the proper notes tomorrow and fix it up but I wanted to get it out today so here even though it's 11 minutes past midnight. Sorry for the delay and hope you like this chapter!


	8. Hey Mr. Argent! Still the sanest person in your family I see. Just thought I'd tell you that there's a couple of unconscious hunters in a downtown warehouse. Hmm? Oh, no, they're all alive. Wait, scratch that, this one's dead. Sorry.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles makes call to a friend, complains about the lack of evil available, then gets captured by a bunch of incompetent hunters and realises a demon from his past is not quite as 'in the past' as he would like.

Stiles' feet slapped the ground with a frantic energy he couldn't hide. The sun barely lit the sky, its first rays just illuminating the tips of the taller trees.

But no matter how hard he pushed, or how fast he sprinted, his mind still returned to yesterday's events. There had been a moment, a brief, terrible, shattering moment, when Stiles thought he had killed them. Erica and Boyd. He thought that his wayward magic had stolen their lives, and it had been easily the worst moment of his life. Even dying couldn't compare.

His knees had given out, and for a long broken second his lungs had been incapable of taking in air.

But then Erica had breathed in a huge gasp of air, and Boyd had twitched, and suddenly Stiles could breathe again. His lungs had expanded painfully, but Stiles was grateful for the pain. Grateful, because he deserved it. God, he had almost killed them.

Stiles' already too fast sprint turned into a blur, his arms and legs pushing himself further with each passing second. The wind whistled through his ears as he ran, and he could no longer tell if it was adrenaline, muscle or magic fuelling his desperate desire to run. But running away from your problems never solved anything. No matter how much you wanted it to.

He didn't know what time it was when he stopped running, had no idea how long he had been away from the house for, but the sun was well and truly up in the sky. It shone down fiercely, burning the pavement. His breath came in huffy little pants, his head swimming, but he felt better than he had when he was talking to Erica that morning. And that had to count for something.

When he finally stopped running, both literally and metaphorically because he was just that good, it occurred to him that maybe sprinting blindly past the houses hadn't been his best idea. So he was lost. But it wasn't like he was going to panic.

Stiles began jogging again, relying on his magic and his sense of direction (admittedly non existent before leaving Beacon Hills) to get him to the Stilinski house. Nobody but him was awake, save for the occasional slipper and nightgown clothed old-age pensioner, or stressed parent trying to wrestle their hyperactive kids into their mini-vans. Stiles gave them a nod, or a small wave, and then continued on.

By the time he reached the house, six hours later than when he had left and calmer than he had been in a while, there were signs of life in practically every home. Lights being lit, curtains being pulled, mail being fetched. It was domestic, and strangely peaceful even with all the noise.

Stiles was an active person by nature. He was constantly learning, or training, or fighting. He hadn't conventionally 'relaxed' in... well, ever probably. He was pretty sure being legally dead for a while didn't count.

Stiles pushed his way past the front door and quietened his footsteps as he slowly walked up the stairs. No doubt Erica could hear him, what with her werewolfy-super hearing, but the longer Stiles could delay his dad finding out about how fucked up he really was, the better for all involved.

And while Stiles had always been a strange child, probably could have been the poster child for repressed childhood emotional trauma, up at all hours of the night and with a tendency to switch to tangents when he got distracted, that is to say, always, this was a new low.

To his dad at least. Stiles was beyond used to it at this point. He could probably count on one hand the number of times he had gotten a 'proper' night's sleep. It should have worried him, but it didn't. Sleep was overrated when you had lives to save.

Stiles quickly thumbed through his contacts on his phone, searching for the name he wanted to talk to. He strolled past his closed bedroom door, knowing that mere metres away was a very impatient Erica. He knew she knew that he was there, but he had just calmed himself down and was in so state to talk to her again.

Instead, he locked himself in the bathroom and paced as the cell rang. Up and down, and up and down, avoiding the mirrors and any reflective surfaces.

"'S this?" Came a croaked, strained voice over the line, and Stiles couldn't stop the sigh of relief. It felt so good to hear the familiar voice.

Silence for a second, then a choked, disbelieving, "Stiles??"

Stiles couldn't help it, he laughed. "Me." He replied, a grin lightening his features without thought. There was a thump on the other end, then cursing.

Stiles' lips quirked upwards in a smile. "You okay there?" He teased, the gesture easy and comfortable in a way it hadn't been with any of the pack.

"You complete fucking asshole of a damned nymph what the hell sort of shit do you think you're doing do you know how goddamned worried I've been fuck you dude, why didn't you just fucking contact me you've been gone for weeks!" The spiel he received wasn't exactly unexpected, or unwelcome, It was nice sometimes to get evidence of how some people still cared. Never the less, this was a conversation best kept private, and there was no doubt in Stiles' mind that they were currently been listened in on by a very nosy werewolf.

Unfortunately for Stiles, once they were in his house his privacy spell on his phone ceased working. It truly was the b-word.

"A, A, I know, okay? But now's not the time. We got a K9 within earshot and I did call you for a reason. You can beat me up later."

"You mean I can try." Came the grumpy reply, before the voice acquiesced. "Fine, fine. What's the sitrep? We talking full out C, or partial?"

Stiles pondered for a moment about how much he really wanted the let the pack know, and landed on zilch. Nada. Nothing. Just because he wanted to keep them safe and alive didn't mean they had any right to know what his life was like. Full code it was, then.

"Full. I got a problem, A. Defcon 1."

More cursing. Stiles didn't know whether he naturally gravitated towards people with a tendency to curse, or whether his own rubbed off on his friends. Either way, put them all together in a room and they had worse potty-mouths than a ship of sailors. None of them were very bothered by it, though.

Stiles, for all his quirks, seemed to be almost popular with supernatural creatures. It was strange. He had made friends at the school, people who, like him, were studying and learning about both magic and themselves, and then during training, and then jobs.

A week after Lydia had proposed using his new found skills to help people with their supernatural problems, Stiles had found himself drunkenly telling his group of friends that they should help him with it. To his everlasting surprise, they had said yes.

All that meant, really, was keeping an eye out for disturbances in whatever area they were in, and back up if necessary. Stiles knew of at least four of his friends that had full time careers outside of his business, and that was brilliant.

He was also aware that just recently two of his closer friends had gotten married in Dublin, in fact, he had been the best man. It was definitely a good start to gay marriage being legal in Ireland, what with an succubus and a faerie getting hitched.

Stiles had given them a spelled vibrator that would never run out of power and automatically changed to suit its owner's (or in this case owners') likes. Yeah, that was well received. To anyone else, that might have been a bit of an unconventional gift, but it spoke a lot about the people Stiles hung out with when the two stars of the show opened the gift in front of everyone and then declared they were going to their bedroom to test it for a few hours.

The werewolves in the room, and everyone who possessed keener senses than humans', had rolled their eyes. It had been very funny. Especially when the wives had descended hours later, flushed and grinning, and Rebecca, full time faerie and only part time pervert, walked straight over to him and thanked him. Profusely. She also hugged him. Nostalgia was a weird emotion, wasn't it?

Their base of operations for the Red Hood was in New York, and all of them (commonly around 15 strong depending on how big of a disaster it was) had their own apartments in the city. They were all close, practically living in each others' pockets- more like a family or a pack than just friends- close enough that within mere hours of Stiles leaving for Beacon Hills they had known about it.

He had avoided contacting them, for a couple of reasons. Namely, what they knew about his past was limited to drunk stories or personal knowledge of experiences a human shouldn't have (Kanimas and the Alpha Pack sprang into mind) and he liked to keep his past and present separate. Less complicated that way. But the two worlds were going to have to collide, even briefly, if he had any hope of doing what was needed. Didn't mean it wasn't sucky, though.

"Defcon 1? How bad we talking? From July levels of apocalypse to Easter." Stiles shuddered. Easter had been an interesting occasion (if by interesting you meant slightly scarring for life- seriously the guy was brutally killing bunnies of all things, too bad he turned out to just be a psychopath who hadn't transitioned to killing humans yet- but not very challenging), but July... Stiles didn't want to think about July, because every time he did it was like dying all over again. Goddamned demons.

So it was with great reluctance and mental pain that Stiles admitted the truth. "Last two weeks in July. With easily 10000 C4s, and some local K9s. Also a B2. Plan in way as repeated boundary, a couple of rogue O6s and a tribe of P4S, both handled. We got ourselves a Buffy."

Well, Beacon Hills wasn't literally a Buffy (read; hellmouth) but with all of Stiles' magic focused in one place it might as well have been.

More cursing, which Stiles felt was totally justified considering the situation.

"Ok, Cap'n. What's the plan?" Stiles huffed out a laugh at the nickname, and his chest swelled with relief. It was good to talk to someone who had never known him before, someone who thought how he was then was how he's always been. It had been stressful to keep up the charade in front of everyone.

Stiles' one track mind abruptly switched to tactics, and he found himself spouting instructions within seconds. "This isn't a job for the whole team, same mission parameters as the last. I need you down here as quick as you can, my magic's acting all FUBAR and the sooner I get Dark Knight into my hands, the better." Stiles rubbed the edges of his eyes, before sighing.

"Have I told you how very nerdy out nicknames sound? I mean, my weapon of choice is named after a Batman Movie."

A pleased chuff could be heard over the line. "Like you weren't the one to instigate the whole thing."

Stiles grinned with all teeth. "I never said I didn't like it."

They both dissolved into gentle laughs for a minute, enjoying the silence and the companionship, even if it was over the phone. Stiles filled his chest with air, then tightened his hold on the phone.

"And bring Him with you." That was risky, could go either way. Could be the greatest decision of Stiles' life, or the crappiest. But they could use his help.

"You sure about this Stiles?" The voice was unsure, hesitant, but Stiles knew if he confirmed it then he wouldn't be questioned. He had earned all his friends' loyalty, and they his. If Stiles said he needed something, there wasn't one of them who would refuse it to him. He himself would cut off his arm before letting any of them down, and it was a sentiment shared by every last one of them.

It was nice to know you could depend on someone no matter what fucked up shit you got yourself entangled in. Useful as well when Stiles' day-job involved monsters and killing, that was for sure.

"Yeah," He said finally, voice not betraying how nervous he was over the decision-even if he still felt it was the right one-, an he was grateful for it. "I'm sure."

Stiles could practically feel the head nod through the connection. "Okay. You're the boss. We'll be down in three days."

Stiles frowned. "48 hours, and feel free to use our funds. Tell everyone I said hi, and take care. And that I miss them. I'll hopefully head up to see you all sooner rather than later, depending how this goes."

"Yeah, I'll pass it on." The voice got impossibly gentler here, layered with genuine compassion and worry. "You watch out for yourself, all right? Don't go being all martyr on us now. You'll be wanted up here, what with Lexi's pregnancy and all."

Stiles smiled at the reminder. "Yeah. Yeah, I know. Don't go getting yourselves killed in my absence. I might wind up missing your ugly face if you do."

Another laugh, this one slightly more real. "Same to you. You know how to contact me, and don't hesitate to call."

"See ya."

Stiles stared down at the phone after hanging up, his brows furrowed. He didn't want to get his friends involved at all, but he couldn't leave Beacon Hills yet. The sooner Stiles got his magic back under control, the better.

Stiles straightened his shoulders and exited the bathroom. Fucking nosy werewolves. He just hoped Erica wouldn't ask him any questions. He was not in the mood to see her face when she shot her down, but he was in even less of a mood to talk to her about it.

What were the chances she had minded her own business and not listened in?

Zero, most likely.

Fucking nosy werewolves.

...

Stiles was cursed. That was the only reason for how often he attracted trouble, even while doing innocuous things like shopping. He didn't even do it on purpose (thank you, Lydia), so it wasn't like he was to blame. There had been so many nights where Stiles had gone to a bar to pick someone up, and instead left with a black eye and a split lip. On the bright side, he usually left with a phone number as well.

That said, he did also sometimes, less rarely than he might like to say, go out looking for trouble. Mostly for good reasons, occasionally for ethically and morally questionable ones, and even out of boredom on occasion. Stiles had this burning desire to save people, like, _constantly_. And when he wasn't helping people, or learning things that would help people, of training so he could help people, things got dull really fast.

He didn't know if a sudden moral compass and heroic tendencies came naturally with vigilante-y type work, or if he was just lucky. Or unlucky, as the case may be.

Whatever the reason, Stiles was out, in the forest, at 2 o'clock, looking for something evil to beat the snot out of. So it was just his luck that all 'something evil's had apparently decided to abandon Beacon Hills for the foreseeable future.

So there he was, following the cold trail of an Omega just for something to do. Something to take his mind off of this morning's (yesterday's? It _was_ technically past twelve) events, and the phone call. Hearing his friend's voice again had reminded him of life away from Beacon Hills, and how easy it had been to forget.

Stiles loved New York, loved the busy streets and the artists and the constantly busy traffic. Loved being who he was, and forever learning new things.

And being back, back in Beacon Hills, it distanced him from his life in a way he hadn't anticipated. Yes, Stiles loved living in New York and having the freedom he did, loved his friends and his job and his life. But that didn't mean he didn't still have nightmares, or anxiety attacks, or sometimes go out and beat the shit out of something just because he needed to. Needed to feel useful.

And being where he was, wasn't helping, Sure, he had made links with some people from his past again, fell back into the routine of pretending to care about school or college or high school drama. But _god_ , he was slowly falling apart.

Stiles had had plans in New York for how he wanted to spend the rest of his life. Not exceptionally detailed, or hopeful, plans. In fact, it had been a pretty early idea that he most likely wouldn't make it to 40. But they had been there, constantly reassuring in the back of his mind in a way small town life had never been.

And then Deaton called, and Stiles was dragged right back to where he started. He didn't hate the pack. He should, perhaps, but when there was no risk of staying when it was all over, why bother wasting energy. He wasn't sorry for leaving, wasn't regretful, wasn't even angry at them anymore.

But he didn't forgive them. Not by a long shot.

Stiles knew the trail of the Omega wouldn't lead him anywhere, but he followed regardless. There was a constant throbbing in the back of his skull, an insistent demand that he use his magic.

Just draining it, no training, for a few weeks hadn't been enough. He felt like a volcano about to erupt. Which, actually, when he thought about, was a pretty apt description.

So it was all his luck when there was nothing- Nothing, with a capital N- to be found. No evil witches, no Omegas, not even a fucking harpy. So Stiles cursed when he was frustrated, get over it.

Stiles was literally seconds away from _creating_ a goddamned enemy to fight- which, believe him, would so not have turned out well. For ANYBODY- when he was suddenly hit with a crowbar.

Well, aimed at with a crowbar. His magic stopped it before it became to close. But Stiles was so bored (and he really needed to go see a shrink or something because self-destructive behaviour was NOT something he needed when he had at least a dozen things out to kill him at all times) that he forced his barriers to drop.

It collided with the back of his head, and Stiles felt vaguely irritated that it hadn't hurt more, because, hello? Weak much?

Was it bad that, to him, getting whacked over the head with a metal object barely even registered as pain? Okay, that was definitely going to go on 'the list of things Stiles refused think of'.

So it was with a little (Okay, a lot) of help from Stiles' own magic that he forced himself to slip into unconsciousness like a normal human would.

At least he couldn't say things were boring anymore. Not that hunters (they were obviously hunters, Stiles could sense the wolfsbane bullets from that distance, and he would have sensed any supernatural creature near him) were much of a threat to him.

But he was feeling reckless, and impulsive, and he could not wait to see the looks of their faces when they realised who it was they had tried to capture.

His last thought as he let the darkness overwhelm him (with something almost akin to glee-he so needed to see a shrink-) was that the hunters obviously didn't know he was a mage, let alone the most powerful mage in centuries.

Yep, Stiles was most definitely going to enjoy giving them first hand knowledge of it.

It was going to be so much fun!

...

Stiles was shocked awake by a faint thrumming in his chest. His hands were tied behind his back, his legs individually tied to the legs of the chair he was sitting on. That was it.

No circle, no gag, no magic herb soaked rope or perimeter of even _kitchen_ salt, all of which would have slowed him down for a few minutes. Probably less, but still better than nothing. No, Stiles was restrained by only common, everyday rope one could buy for a few dollars in a hardware shop.

For a minute he was too shocked to do anything, then he laughed. Loudly. It echoed off of the grimy dirt caked walls, and caught the attention of whatever stupid hunter had tried to hold him.

God, this was the funniest thing Stiles had seen in weeks.

He found himself grinning as a man, wearing ripped overalls and pulling off the badass vibe about a million times worse than Stiles himself, stepped forward out of the darkness. How very cliché. Stiles didn't understand villains'-no matter how useless- love for dark things, not when Stiles thrived in the dark.

The dark was where he preferred to be, hiding in plain sight, his magic burning through anything in its path. By comparison, this guy's attempt at intimidation was easily the most entertaining thing Stiles had ever seen.

"S'up?" He called out, hands slowly wriggling around in the rope. He could have used his magic to burn through them in nothing flat, but it felt almost cheating, unsportsmanlike. Stiles was going to do this the old-fashioned way, with a little bit of help from his intensive training in pretty much every form of martial arts or self-defence ever.

The hunters wouldn't even know what hit them.

The man frowned at him, silent, before being joined by another man- this one in cut, muddy jeans and a camouflage jacket. Both of them said nothing, standing and staring at him. He felt completely justified in grinning back at them manically, eyes alight with humour.

He might have been disappointed by the complete lack of a challenge they presented, if the two weren't quickly followed by a least another dozen, all wearing clothes that had seen better days.

Stiles' smile only got impossibly bigger.

"Hey guys!" He began cheerfully, and received a well-timed (and rude!) punch to the face for his troubles. Stiles flung his head back dramatically, using the new view point to carefully and meticulously note the exits and the roof.

"You don't get to speak to me, dog." The one who slapped him sneered, face contorted in disgust. Okay, whoa, not cool, dude. So not cool.

Stiles dropped the smile and frowned at him, eyes like daggers. He _hated_ everyone who hunted, sure, but there was a special little place in his heart for douchbag, Alpha male, species-ist assholes. By special place he meant he liked to rip them apart. Some people were romantics, and some were psychopaths.

"You need to get your facts straight, asshole. Not a werewolf, here. Which you'd know if you were in contact with the resident hunters of this town, the Argents. So that tells me you're not working for them at least, and that brings me to my next question." Stiles shoved his face upwards, getting right into the guy's face, barely restraining his magic enough not to combust. "What the hell are you doing in my town?"

The guy stepped back unconsciously, before turning to face his comrades, face pinched into one of confusion. Stiles mentally groaned.

First of all, Stiles was not a wolf. By any stretch of the imagination. And the idea that he had been taken for one was hilarious.

But for fuck's sake, you did not automatically believe what a person you kidnapped told you! That didn't mean Stiles didn't want to be taken at face value, but he hadn't expected it in the slightest. He was pretty sure that if there was a kidnapper's handbook, they wouldn't even have bothered putting that little clue in, because _it was just common sense_.

Christ, it felt almost cruel to take these hunters out now. That didn't mean he wasn't going to do it though. With a smile on his face. Stiles could be truly terrifying when he put his mind to it.

Stiles rolled his eyes and fidgeted with the rope around his wrists some more. It was slowly coming loose, slipping further down his arms as gravity took affect.

"I don't believe you!" About damn time. Stiles turned to glare up at the flushed hunter, one eyebrow raised. He was sure judgement was written _all over_ his face.

"Of course you don't believe me!" Wrists nearly freed now. "I never expected you to believe me!" Almost...there. "I'd be embarrassed for you if you _did_ believe me!" Bingo.

Stiles kept talking, running his mouth and elaborating on all the ways he never expected to be believed as he oh so slowly reached down to the band of his jeans and got a handle on the knife hidden there. They hadn't even fucking searched him for weapons.

The Argents would never have been this stupid. Stiles knew things were bad when he was actually missing Gerard's diabolicalness. He did keep things interesting, though.

Stiles slid the knife upwards until it held easily in the palm of his hand, tip barely grazing his fingertips. He casually stretched his leg muscles, loosening the ropes around his shins enough that it was barely noticeable but inarguably there. The hunters still watched his face, expressions shifting from anger and disgust to confusion and shock and back again.

He just had that affect on people.

"Well," Stiles said, smiling up at the assembled group of hunters benignly, "Not that this wasn't fun or anything, but well, it really wasn't. I mean, you tied up a mage-and I'm not trying to brag here but you tied up the singular most powerful mage in recorded history, actually you know what, this is totally me bragging- with ordinary rope. No gag. No magical boundary. Seriously, I'd be insulted if I wasn't laughing too hard internally to care. This has got to be the funniest thing that has happened to me in ages, so, you know, thank you for that. Now, down to business."

In one swift move, Stiles stepped out from the chair, fingers buzzing with restrained magic. Looked like not using his powers was not an option if he didn't want to blow up the whole goddamned building. Wait, did he want to blow up the building...?

Stiles pursed his lips as he brought his fisted hand around to crack the side of the guys head. The hunter dropped like a stone with nary a sound, body going lax. No, no he didn't want to blow up the building. Goddamn it. That would have been a great way to release excess energy.

Stiles stepped over the unmoving body of the unconscious hunter and faced the larger group. There were more than a dozen now, all staring at him in shock. Stiles fist pumped the air once. "Yes! That's what I'm talking about! Okay to make this fair I promise I won't use either fire or water magic." Stiles frowned once, quickly, before pouting. "However, I do have to get back to the house before my departure is noted, so you know, no hard feelings!"

The hunters shook off their shock, and, as one, rushed him, pulling assorted knives and guns out of various places on their bodies. Stiles clapped his hands together.

When the first hunter reached him, Stiles grabbed the back of his shirt and flung him across the room, causing a cloud of dust to rise form the ground. The down-for-the-count hunter groaned before going silent. One.

Two more came at him from opposite sides, and Stiles used their momentum to push himself off of their shoulders and into the air. He landed behind them, and forcefully slammed their heads together, a slight thumping sound the only thing before they both crumpled to the ground. Two. Three.

Hunters four and five respectively tried to sneak up behind him and press a dagger to his throat, and slam into his midriff like a forward tackle. Four was flipped over Stiles' head by his armpits and given a long drag of the knife down his torso for his troubles, and five got a knee to the groin and a broken wrist.

That all occurred in forty seconds, five prone bodies and twelve hunters still standing. Stiles bounced on his heels. That had been easy, too easy, but if the cautiousness of the rest of the hunters was any indication they were going to do better. Fingers crossed.

The next hunter to attack him used a different tactic, all swirling blades and fast footwork, and Stiles felt so ecstatically _alive_.

Stiles dropped down low to the ground, sweeping the blade-dude's legs from under him, shaking his hand into a fist that was shoved straight into his stomach like Stiles was trying to give him the Heimlich. The man rolled on the floor, breathing laboured, winded and out of commission. Six. And not even a sweat.

Fuck yeah, Stiles still had it.

Number seven was more careful, but still not careful enough. She (and that threw Stiles for a loop for a second, because he thought the women were the leaders in hunter groups, but whatever that didn't mean they didn't fight (Allison being a prime example of that)) stepped around him, holding a long steel stick that literally _buzzed_ with electricity. Stiles could feel the energy, and he was suddenly, perversely, desperate to get hit by it.

The last time he had gotten shocked, he had managed to take out four upper class demons in five seconds. Stiles mentally compared it to the affect Thor's lightning had on Tony's suit in the Avengers, because, yes, he was that big of a nerd and anyone who claimed otherwise obviously didn't know him,

Never the less, with his magic at such a volatile state (a really nice way of saying it was probably going to kill everyone if it got stronger) Stiles instead feinted a hit at her shoulder, jabbed her in the other, twisted the wrist that held the cattle rod (who even used cattle rods anymore??) until she released it with a cry, then struck her with her own weapon. She contorted on the ground. Seven. How strong had she had the thing on?

The answer when Stiles looked at the dial? The highest. Any pity he might have had for her disappeared and he jabbed her with it again. He was likely to take it personal when you tried to shoot him up with enough power to cause an _entire fucking city_ to black out.

He supposed it was a flaw of his.

After that things became a whirl of pulled punches (because no matter how much he complained he didn't _really_ want to see them dead), muttered expletives and manic laughs. It wasn't until number thirteen (ha, unlucky number thirteen) that he was shot at.

Slowly, very very slowly, Stiles turned to glare at the hunter. The man was shaking, hands fiddling with the trigger of the gun. If Stiles' shields hadn't been up it would've burrowed right through his shoulder. That was it. He was done with the bullshit.

Stiles stalked angrily towards the hunter, conjuring up dark tendrils of vines to strangle _the living daylights out of him_ , when another bullet just passed by his arm. Not enough that they were all taking a leaf out of their ally's book and shooting at him, but they all had to be crap shots too.

Stiles was seeing red, his fists clenched into his sides. Maybe it was growing up with a sheriff for a dad, and friends who were shot multiple times, but any time someone pulled out a gun Stiles lost any semblance of humour. He was proficient in them, downright scary with a rifle, but always preferred using blades or magic or his own body, if the situation called for it.

And the hunters, or at least the four left, all had firearms pulled on him, their smirking faces further inducing his ire.

Stiles smiled darkly at them, and his eyes flashed pure white, before _hundred_ of twisting vines exploded out of the ground. The hunters yelled in panic, their weapons abandoned with no more thought, as Stiles constricted the living ropes around them further. And further.

Stiles' magic had a mind of his own as the shifting vines sported barbs, an inch thick and hooked, that dug into their skin. With a push, Stiles managed to take control of his magic long enough to pull the sharp thorns back into the vines themselves. The hunters wiggled and struggled, their clothes in even more disarray, and Stiles finally slammed them all into the earth hard enough to knock them out. Fourteen, fifteen, sixteen and seventeen.

He turned back to number thirteen, the sneaking plants behind him slipping back into their original forms, and formed a cloud of deep, entwined, living smoke in the palm of his hand.

 

His smile was gentle, deceptive as he cocked his head. "Now, I'm going to live up to the cliché here. Please accept my apologies in advance. But you see," Stiles laughed lightly, eyes still burning amber, "I have a powerful need to know why you're here. As you can see," He gestured flippantly with one hand to behind him, to the sixteen trained hunters he just incapacitated in under five minutes, "I am by no means your average run-of-the-mill werewolf. You can't hope to kill me, can do nothing to hurt me that hasn't already be done. Now, why are you here?"

The hunter, obviously terrified and shaking with it, spit in his face. "We can kill those dogs you call friends and all the people who sympathise with them! There are too many of us! They deserve to die!"

Stiles kept smiling, but his eyes were hard. "So I'm not the only cliché then. How comforting. Now you listen, and you listen with all the talent your tiny hunter brain possesses, okay? We can do this the easy way, or my way. No one has ever survived my way. What's it gonna be?"

The hunter bared his teeth at him, ironically animalistic, before saying, "We know who you are, Stilinski! Your coward of a dad is next on our list!"

Stiles let the smile slowly fall from his face, eyes glowing painfully golden-white, lashes thick as he watched the hunter from beneath them. He fingered the knife in his hand, then drove it straight into the his chest with no warning. The man's mouth dropped open, gasping through the pain. Stiles' voice was dark and velvety as he spoke. "You really shouldn't have said that."

He shoved the magic blade in further, knowing that every second it was inside him it burned like an eternity. "You don't know who I am. How could you?" He stroked the man's hair faux-gently, another smile already lifting his lips. Stiles didn't enjoy inflicting pain, per-se, but he found that when people thought you did things got done a lot quicker.

But the idiot had threatened his _dad_. He didn't get to live.

Stiles leaned in real close, his breath fanning against the gasping man's ear. "I am the monster parents warn their children about at night. I am power, and fear, and hope, all encased in a mortal body. I am your deepest fear, your most poignant regret. I am your death. My name is the Red Hood," And there the man's eyes grew triple in size and he moaned out his fear, but Stiles wasn't finished yet, "And I do, I try to be good. Not to kill. To _save_ people. To help them. But sometimes, sometimes, I. Just. _Slip_." Stiles' chuckle was utterly terrifying in that moment, as he twisted the knife if the man's stomach.

"And when I slip, whoever caused it usually ends up spending an eternity in the deepest levels of hell. So, let me ask again, one more time."

Stiles fixed the dying hunter with a gaze too intense, too inhuman, for his age. Too immortal.

"Why. Are. You. Here?"

Each word was emphasised with a thrust of the knife, and it seemed like it should have come out his back by then with how deep it was going through the hunter's chest.

The man was outwardly choking on air, unable to make any sounds apart from cut off whimpers. The thing about Stiles, the thing that was so easily hidden by his slight frame and innocent-looking eyes, was that he _knew_ pain. Knew how to feel it, to ignore it, to work with it, to worship it, and how to cause it.

The knife in the chest wouldn't kill the hunter. Oh he would wish it did, the pain overwhelming by that point, he would beg to die. But part of the magic was that it would keep him alive. So Stiles could make the pain last for eternity. It wasn't an empty threat. And the hunter knew it.

Red-rimmed eyes full of pain met Stiles' and the hunter gasped out an answer. "Heard there was trouble in Beacon Hills. Heard supernatural creatures were being drawn here. We thought we would be able to take a few of them out."

Stiles growled low in the back of his throat. That was bad, very bad. If news had already reached the ears of the hunters, there was no telling who would come next. Stiles needed more information.

"Who told you?" He demanded, but all he got was a pained half sob. "Who told you?" He yelled, his hand on the knife the only thing holding the hunter up at all.

A dribble of scarlet blood ran down from the man's mouth. "He said-He said his name was Baalberith." The man stumbled over the uncommon name, but Stiles felt his blood run cold all the same. It couldn't be. It was impossible.

"When was this?" He questioned harshly, tone not permitting any argument. The hunter flinched as the knife pressed deeper into his body.

"Last-Last week."

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck-if he was telling the truth, and Stiles hadn't sensed a lie, things just got a billion times more complicated. He couldn't help the derisive laugh that escaped his body.

"Do you know with whom you spoke?" His jaw was clenched, and he didn't expect an answer, not really. "Baalberith," And his tongue curled around the name like acid in his mouth, "Is a demon. And not just any demon. He is a chaos demon that feeds on death and destruction. He is not someone you want to meet. But if he's sending you in this direction, towards here, he must already know where I am."

Absently, Stiles pulled the knife out of the man's body, and he immediately slid to the floor, choking and gasping.

Stiles' heart was frozen in his chest, and he felt a sick sort of fear crawl over him. He shoved it down, because addressing it then would have done him no good.

But if Baalberith was coming to Beacon Hills, Stiles would have to change his plans. There was no way he was letting that demonic bastard even breathe on the town unless he was dead as all fuck. Then again, Stiles had killed him before and he had somehow managed to come back.

But if his suspicions were correct (and they generally were), Stiles would be able to avoid something like that happening again by taking certain measures. Stiles would do whatever it took to take that death demon down, even if he had to spend an eternity in hell to do it.

But first, the hunters. He needed to make a phone call. Maybe if the hunter he had stabbed was lucky he would bleed out before Stiles finished his phone call. He might just kill him regardless of his morals otherwise, because catching the attention of a murder demon was a hard feat to accomplish unless you were particularly evil.

Stiles felt bile rise in his throat, but he pushed it down like he had with the fear. It wasn't the time or place to freak out.

There might never be a time or place.

...

Allison watched silently from the rafters, hands unsteady on her bow. What the hell had happened to Stiles? Chatty, silly, clumsy Stiles that could NOT take down seventeen armed, trained hunters, and would never have dreamed of torturing anybody.

She didn't know who 'Baalberith' was, but if even Stiles wove tales of fear about him, she was inclined to be wary of him without needing any more evidence.

She left the warehouse as quickly as she dared, and so missed the way Stiles crumpled as soon as he walked away and passed the tree-line. She missed the way his head pressed low to his chest, or his frantic breaths that sounded painful in their intensity. She missed the way he fell apart, the same way he did everything. With abandon and guilt, before forcing himself back together. She never saw the way he stood up, back bone straight and eyes wiped clear, banishing any distractions from his mind. She would never know how impossible it had been in that second for him to push aside the suffocating memories and focus on saving them, but how he had managed it.

She didn't see the toll being who he was took on him, and if Stiles had been aware that she could have, he would have been grateful.

Showing his pain had never been an option. Werewolf draining didn't work on emotions, anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, okay, I have literally no good reasons for why this took so long. One day I look and I haven't updates in two days, the next it's twelve, I don't even know.  
> I've only been getting like 6 hours sleep for the past few nights (Tumblr and late-night studying is _so_ not a good combination, but anyway) which I know is bad for me but I still do, just like I always buy junk food like pringles if I have the spare money.
> 
> Warnings for this chapter; Where do I even begin, okay:  
> Stiles almost killed Erica and Boyd, but they both survive.  
> Stiles is not really in a good place mentally, understandably if you think about it.  
> Stiles is (kinda?) violence-addicted, like he feels as if he's useless when he isn't saving people.  
> Pretty graphic descriptions of violence as Stiles fights the hunters, so there is that.  
> Brief mentions of Past!Character Death.  
> Stiles like really, really needs a hug.  
> Oh, and Stiles tortures a hunter for information with a magic knife to the chest. Now that I think about it, that one shoudl probably have gone first.
> 
> I'm not that good with triggers otherwise, so, sorry in advance, but if there's something I left out that you think should be in here feel free to drop a comment!
> 
> Right, well, this chapter was actually pretty difficult to write, for reasons unknown. Emm, the whole thing with the demon is *obviously by the summary* one of the key points in the entire story so there will be more about him later.
> 
> The name I got from literally googling "Evil demons that feed on death." I think the site was just his name and wikipedia, but I have changed some details to suit the story which will come out later.
> 
> The idea is that Stiles fought Baalberith a few weeks before the beginning of this story and finally killed him, and, again, more will be explained later about that.
> 
> I just recently learned how to do italics without switching to rich text mode- I know, I know, and I thought I was good with technology too!- so prepare yourself for a lot of that.
> 
> This, I think, has been one of the longest chapters yet, partly as an accidental apology for the delay but also because I've been writing the warehouse scene non stop all morning. (I've fallen asleep twice now in the past week with my laptop on trying to get this done, so there's probably bits of it that aren't that good or coherent but I tried to make it as easy as possible to understand.)
> 
> As always, a huge, gigantic thank you to everyone who reads this story, gives it kudos, comments, bookmarks or subscribes (though I don't know if you do, _thank you_ , AO3), and I hope you like the new chapter!
> 
> Love,  
> H.S.F


	9. Don't look at me with those hangdog eyes, Scott, or I swear to hell I will make it literal and hang you from a tree with a dog lead. A bright red, sparkly dog lead. Yeah, I asked Deaton. How do you like me now, wolf-boy?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Have some Sterek action, plus Before the argument, and After!

"He.. just... stabbed him. With the dagger. I would never have thought him capable of it, but he did. And he took them all out. There were seventeen hunters, there, Scott. Fully trained, would have been able to completely overpower the pack if they had any idea, any experience at all. And he floored them like they were nothing. I've been in the supernatural world two years, but I've never seen anything like it."

Allison was standing in the middle of the room, facing what was there of the pack like a criminal before the executioner. Her hands had that stilted motionless quality that most often meant she was trying incredibly hard not to fidget.

Her eyes were cast downwards, staring intently at the wooden floor of the kitchen like it held the answers to all of life's problems. Hell, maybe it did. What did Derek know?

He thought he knew Stiles, and, yet, there they were.

When Allison had walked into the house, with an unnameable expression on her face and her hands clasping her bow so tightly Derek was afraid it might break, his first thought was that something had happened Scott. But then Scott had walked in after her, face a hurt mixture of confusion and anxiety.

She had walked straight into the sitting room, trailed behind by Derek and his Beta. With a sicking feeling in his stomach, Derek had sat down on the couch and braced himself.

But then she'd started talking, and Derek was grateful he's sat down.

Scott was wearing that puppyish, hang-dog expression he wore so well, and was clinging to Allison's hand like a drowning man to a life jacket. The comparison wasn't that far off, if Scott was experiencing the very same choking sensation that Derek himself was fighting.

"Allison," He interrupted, "Does he pose a threat to us?"

Allison was shocked into silence. "What?" She asked, her eyebrows scrunched together.

She sounded so put out, as if the idea had never occurred to her, would never occur to her, but it was common sense. If Stiles was capable of what she had said then it was a valid thought to wonder if he would hurt them next. Even if everything in Derek said otherwise.

Derek stood up from the couch. "Does." He took a step away from the seat. "He." Another step, bringing his left foot onto the plush carpet Lydia had demanded they buy when the house was first rebuilt. "Pose." Both feet on the carpet, his weight sinking down infinitesimally into the fibres. Allison drew a deep breath, the inhalation exaggerated by Derek's wolf hearing. "A." He was only a metre away from her then, and even if he wanted to he couldn't have stopped himself from continuing forward, because he was _this_ close to losing all semblance of control. "Threat." His tongue curled over the r, his eyes glowing slightly redder than their usual colour. Scott growled from beside Allison, but she shushed him, watching Derek intently. "To. Us."

Allison pressed her lips together, eyes wide. For a second Derek wished they were wide with fear, but Derek knew his Beta. Allison was angry. And Derek had no idea why.

"A threat to us?" She demanded, incredulous, pushing back when Derek leaned into her space. Her voice was hard, a mocking laugh on the tip of her tongue. "To _us_?"

She stared him down, jaw clenched. "Why do you think he tortured that hunter, _Derek_ " The way she said his name was derisive and cruel, and Derek got a sudden flashback of Kate before being pulled away from his own head.

"Stiles still cares for us. God only knows why, when we have done nothing to deserve it. I'm here to warn you about something else entirely, something that was enough for the man who can take down seventeen hunters in five minutes to worry about. You weren't there, Derek. Stiles may not be out friend anymore, but he is by no means the enemy. How could you even think that? I mean, Stiles would kill for us, for this town, he **has** killed for us. Probably multiple times. And yet you're asking me if he would hurt us? Just because someone has power doesn't mean they have no control, or heart. You should know better than most."

Derek frowned at her angrily, trying to ignore the way his brain insisted he believe her. The pack came first, and if Stiles was as powerful as Allison claimed then he needed to be stopped. "What's that supposed to mean?" Derek flinched as his wolf growled deep and low in his chest. He didn't know whether it was from Allison's insinuation, or Derek's own stubbornness. Knowing him, it could be both.

Allison didn't get a chance to answer, the words stuck on the tip of her tongue like barbs, because no sooner had she opened her mouth to utter them when there was a *pop* of sound outside, and four _very_ distinct smells hit Derek's nose.

Derek, Scott and a still-angry Allison rushed outside, and were greeted with tired-looking Erica, Boyd, Isaac and Stiles- Boyd leaning on Erica and Isaac with an arm thrown around each of their shoulders. The Betas looked worse for wear, deep bags under the eyes and red marks on what could be seen of their bodies. Stiles himself looked no different than usual, maybe slightly more settled than when Derek had seen him last.

Derek tried hard not to think about how killing someone had helped Stiles settle. He wasn't very good at it.

Boyd was conscious, at least, even with the way the majority of his weight rested on his pack-mates, a small smile on his face that Derek hadn't been witness to since the last pack night with Stiles. Erica was smiling widely, at odds with her tired and hurting scent. Isaac was caught mid-laugh, humour dancing in his eyes.

Allison hung back as Derek walked in front of them, watching Stiles with the same focus she usually reserved for fighting. Stiles spared her a mere glance, meticulously recording her every little reaction, storing it away for future reference. He swept his eyes over Scott, observing his former best friend with a coldness Derek had never dreamt Stiles possessed.

Then his eyes hit Derek, and 'hit' was such a perfect description for what Derek felt with only one touch of Stiles' eyes against his own.

A smirk the size of a mountain changed Stiles' entire face into one eerily reminiscent of the pre-bite Jackson they all remembered and hated. It wasn't a good look on him, but it wasn't like Derek had any rights to say as such. No matter what his wolf and instincts insisted to the contrary.

"Derek." Stiles said, and Derek had _missed_ the way Stiles said his name, _missed_ in some undiscernible way how Stiles would talk to him, a mixture of sarcasm, independence, and a **You're-Not-My-Alpha** attitude that he should never have enjoyed.

But he did, because good Alphas were supposed to have people who challenged them, who encouraged them, who forced them to be the best they can be.

And out of all his Betas, all the pack who at different times gave up on him, Stiles never did. It was weird not having that anymore, and Derek could no more have helped the residual bitterness that thought encouraged than he could the redness of his eyes.

Stiles stepped past the Betas, his hands gliding over the exposed skin of their necks briefly as reassurance. They leaned into his touch, and Derek was so confused, because **how and why** did _Stiles_ become a source of comfort?

But that was a stupid question, because Stiles had _always_ been their rock. The humanity of the pack, maybe not their moral compass, but the reason they stayed human. He had been their comfort for forever. And Derek had kicked him out. His reasons were becoming more flimsy in the face of Stiles' return.

Stiles walked up to the front door, a reverse position of when they believed Lydia was the kanima and Derek tried to kill her. He swept a hand dramatically behind him, encompassing the three smiling Betas with one flourish.

"Delivery for a Mr. Hale. Are these stray pups yours by any chance?" Erica responded to that by slapping Stiles on the arm, shooting Stiles a quick indulgent smile when he mock glared at her. Even with the same old camaradie between them, Derek saw the hardness in Stiles' eyes that would most likely never leave. Stiles may be speaking with the three Betas, but they weren't friends. Not anymore.

"Stiles." He growled out, but was promptly ignored when the mage clapped his hands and turned back to the wolves.

"All right, on you go then wolves. Stiles has things to do and places to be."

He shooed them with both hands, gesturing widely towards the house. Isaac whimpered at him, making puppy dog eyes to rival Scott's. Stiles didn't relent, instead rolling his eyes.

"Fine. I'll see you guys soon, all right?" Erica handed Boyd off to Isaac them bounded up to Stiles, wrapping an arm around his neck. Stiles hugged her back just as tightly, and Derek could see that there definitely was something different about him.

He was more on edge than he had been previously, but at the same time calmer. It didn't make any sense, how someone could be both at once, but Stiles was. Something had obviously changed his mind regarding the pack-or at least how to act with them-, but Derek had no clue what it was.

It irked him.

A lot of things about Stiles irked him.

Always had.

Most likely always would.

That was if Stiles hung around after all was said and done. The thought was enough to shake him out of his head.

"What happened to them?" He growled again, and Stiles slowly turned back to him, releasing Erica so she could once again help support Boyd, who _still_ couldn't stand on his own.

Stiles blanked all emotion from his face, and Derek wanted to shake him, to get _some_ reaction from him.

"A misunderstanding." Was all Stiles said, his voice controlled, deeper than it was in Derek's head. The contrast was driving him insane.

Derek strode down the steps and off the porch, movements stiff and coordinated.

His wolf was treating Stiles like a rival Alpha, while at the same time refusing to do anything to hurt him, and Derek had had enough. In the heat of the moment, he forgot everything that Allison had told him, all the tales of Stiles' magical prowess. He saw only the sarcastic boy he remembered.

"What sort of misunderstanding?" He pushed out through gritted teeth, only a metre away from Stiles by that point. He could feel his eyes glowing red, his fangs dropping and claws elongating. He managed to compress it enough that he didn't fully shift, instead straddling that in between place between losing yourself and losing control.

Stiles didn't move backwards, never took one step, and it threw him for a loop because he was **Alpha** damn it, and Stiles should have been able to sense that. Should have been scared, but his scent just smelled bored.

Stiles tilted his head, observing him like a bug under a microscope. "One that doesn't concern you. We dealt with it."

Derek bared his fangs at him, ignoring the anxious Betas in the background. "Like you dealt with those hunters?" He sneered, and it never occurred to him to stop, and just _think_.

Stiles smiled at him then, with a murderous edge Derek had never seen before.

" **I** dealt with the hunters. _Your_ Betas _and_ I dealt with the misunderstanding. It's an important distinction, that."

Stiles poked him in the shoulder when he said 'your', the word loaded with all the condescension he possessed.

Derek glared at the finger when it hit him, but all he got was a small electric shock that fed his irrational anger. He knew it was irrational, but he couldn't control what he felt.

He batted the hand away with the back of his own, taking another step into Stiles' space.

"I thought you said to leave you alone." He told him, fists clenched at his sides.

Stiles chuckled darkly. " I did, but don't you know your wolves are persistent? Or aren't you _Alpha_ enough to allow them to be independent. Are you so insecure that you have to know where they are and who're they're with at all times?"

Derek ignored the way Stiles had seen right through him to his deepest fears, just like he always had, and instead lashed out with his words.

"No, it's because I care about them. Unlike _you_. You left the pack, Stiles, you left town! At least I try and keep them safe, keep them alive. What the hell do you do?!" He was yelling then, anger at Stiles taking over any thought but making him feel _guilt_ for his departure.

And for the first time in ever Derek was faced with seeing Stiles truly angry, bereft of any of the control that made him appear normal. It was completely terrifying, and Derek regretted his words as soon as they dropped from his lips.

"What do _I_ do, Derek? I'll tell you, shall I? I live through whatever is thrown my way. Be it demons, or monsters, or being kicked out of the pack of wolves I called my friends. Being left and abandoned and judged, over and over and over again." Stiles was talking towards Derek now, eyes glowing profusely.

"I live through over a year of nightmares and death and destruction, without ever getting any peace, any reprise from the hell that became my life. Because you are too fucking stubborn to accept that I helped. The pack left me, Derek. Not the other way around. **Never** the other way around. I have killed, and survived, and tortured, and hurt, and helped, and fucking _died_ because of the pack. So if I want to kill a hunter, if I want to burn down a goddamned building, if I want to wipe out the entire population of Beacon Hills, _I will_. And there is _nothing_ you can do to stop me. So you don't get to judge me or my actions, you have no right to make assumptions about my character, my choices, my life. I didn't have to come back to Beacon Hills when Deaton called, I could've left you all on your own just like you left me. But as it turns out, I have an unfortunate investment in keeping you all alive. Because I don't, I can't, forgive any of you for what you have done, for having the absolute gall to try and make decisions about _my_ life without me. But if you for one second mistake my unwillingness to see you dead for forgiveness, then you can choke on your own ego. And if you try and control me, try and restrain me, I will burn you to the ground and watch as you spend an eternity in hell."

Stiles had a dagger pressed to Derek's throat before he could blink, and it burned his skin where it touched.

"If I want to spend time with the pack, and if they come looking for me, then I will. And if you have a problem with that I suggest you get the fuck over it. _You_ left me, Derek. _You_ are the one who decided I wasn't good enough to be the in pack. And if you've suddenly changed your mind just because I am powerful, then you can go drink wolfsbane. Because this," And Stiles pointed the knife towards himself and the Betas, before pointing it back at Derek. "This is **not** a friendship. This is an unfortunate situation where we both want exactly the same thing, but to do so we have to remain in contact each each other. We are unwilling allies at best. And trust me, Derek Hale, you don't want to make an enemy of me." Stiles hissed, before stepping back and shooting Derek a look of disgust.

Stiles bent down to scoop up something that must have fallen from his pockets during his speech, before nodding once to the startled Betas and disappearing without another word. Derek carefully kept his mind blank as he walked back inside the house, followed by the pack, except for Allison.

He ignored them all and climbed up the stairs to his room, closing the door firmly shut behind him.

Downstairs, the Betas sat in silence as they listened to their Alpha tear things apart in his room. With every crash their expressions grew more stony, every snarl their own wolves rose closer to the surface.

But they weren't angry at Stiles. Instead, all but Scott walked out the door, and when Derek came back downstairs he was greeted with a forlorn Scott sitting at the table with an opened bottle of _something_ in front of him.

He raised a glass of the suspicious looking liquid to Derek in salute, before swallowing it down in one smooth gulp.

He fiddled restlessly with the glass in his hands, the emotions coming off of him giving Derek a headache.

"I think we have some thinking to do." Scott said, and Derek nodded once. That was an understatement.

...

**BEFORE**

Stiles made it back to the house only an hour after being kidnapped in the first place. It must have been some sort of record or something. Maybe he should call the Guinness Book of Records.

He thumped up the stairs to his bedroom, only to remember halfway there that Erica and Boyd were both still in there. He had talked to Erica briefly before leaving, coasting over the details and expressing the bare minimum, telling her things on a very strict _need-to-know_ basis.

Then, still feeling pent up and uncomfortable from the altercation with the two Betas in the first place, he had gone looking for a fight. And a fight he had found.

As well as the really, really shitty news of a certain demon Stiles had believed to be out of commission.

All he really wanted at that moment was to disappear into a whirlwind of researching and plans and preparation, along with spells and magic and avoiding asking anybody for any help. Which, no, actually all he really wanted at that moment was to sleep, but he knew _that_ wasn't going to happen.

So he grit his teeth and swept into his bedroom, burying whatever remained of pain and any indication that his 'walk' was anything but. It was awful how skilled he had got at it.

Boyd, amazingly, was fully conscious and aware of his surroundings. He and Erica were both gazing around his room with a barely concealed curiousity. Stiles carelessly glanced around his room, and wondered what it must look like to other people. All he saw was what was wouldn't fit in his apartment in New York. Sure, there were very little 'personal touches' there to give it any resemblance to what it once looked like, but it wasn't like they were necessary to his or other people's survival.

Stiles had no energy to spare on useless thoughts.

"Boyd." He inclined his head, watching as Erica and Boyd both startled from where they had been deep in conversation. "Good to see you awake."

"Thanks to you." Boyd replied, and Stiles tried hard to ignore the sudden flash of _guilt-pain-fear_ he had felt when Boyd hadn't responded. Because his magic had caused that damage, his magic was unable to heal it. It was an annoying little glitch in magic that left Stiles scarily proficient with most forms of medicine, and vastly knowledgeable about 'What to do when you have a six inch cut diagonally across your stomach'. Google hadn't been much help with that, but there had been a useful tutorial on local anaesthetics. In the end he'd gone without, as watching a thirty minute YouTube video on safety hadn't been particularly helpful when his intestines were spilling out of his skin. Believe it or not.

Stiles shrugged one shoulder before dropping it. "It was my fault in the first place." And he could still smell the herbs and mixtures he had used to help Boyd, still feel their thick phantom liquid coating his fingers.

Erica and Boyd shared a single look, and Stiles ignored it in favour of marching to his desk and rifling through the loose papers that lay on top like fallen leaves, no understandable system of organisation. But there was one. It just made no sense. Luckily senseless things were Stiles' specialty.

He quickly found the paper he was looking for, and with one hand unfolded it out, eyes tracking the silver magic line that glittered on a very familiar path. It was map, one of America, with small, seemingly unimportant areas marked and larger more well known areas forgotten. It wasn't unlike the map on his bedroom wall, just smaller.

He watched as the line stretched out suddenly, angling down towards Beacon Hills, criss-crossing and swerving before finally stopping at the town name. He instantly mapped out the path on a stray paper lying beside him, a pen appearing out of nowhere and writing down the town names that the line passed through.

It was a short enough list, mostly out of the way country towns that had escaped notice. Beacon Hills was the last name on the list. Which meant the demon that line tracked, the demon known as Baalberith that Stiles had killed, was going to make his way to Beacon Hills after stopping at the other places first.

It had cost Stiles a scar across his shoulder-blades to curse the demon with a tracing spell. He had certainly never believed he would need to look at _that_ particular paper again.

But it made Stiles uneasy, not knowing for sure what he was planning. He had enough experience with the evil son of a bitch to know it was nothing good.

He hated when he had to change his plans.

A cough dragged his eyes from the paper and his brain back to the land of the living, and he realised that he had forgotten about the Betas' presence at all.

"Oh, right." He muttered, rolling up the two papers and tucking them into the inner pocket of his jacket, where they were kept along with a flick knife he used in emergencies and a jar of magic salve that would stop the blood-flow of any non fatal wound.

What? Blood _was_ a bitch to get out of clothes.

Stiles pursed his lips and contemplated his next plan of action. With the demon in play, the rules were changed. He was going to have to bring in the pack's help, or at the very least inform them of the new development. Demons were nothing to keep to yourself.

"Right." Stiles was just about to teleport them all to Derek's house when Isaac tumbled through his window.

"Really?" Stiles looked at him blankly, and Isaac hid a grin.

"Fine. Isaac and Erica you two grab an arm of Boyd's each. Get him on his feet. Boyd," And Stiles took in the boy's pale face when he stood up, the way he swayed lightly on his feet and leaned heavily on the support he was being offered.

"Try not to pass out." Isaac's laugh echoed through the room as Stiles transported them to the Hale house. _Time to showdown, Alpha. You'll find I'm not as quick to capitulate as I once was. Hope you're ready._

...

**AFTER**

Stiles was going to get drunk. In fact, not only was he going to get drunk, but Stiles was going to get completely _smashed_.

The argument with Derek had brought up bad memories, so if he wanted to get any sleep at all alcohol was the only way to do it. It was at times like those that Stiles cursed his tolerance. It would take at least five glasses of strong alcohol to make him tipsy, but since he was going for the full out college loss of memories experience magic whiskey was the only way to go.

Stiles actually happened to have a bottle of it from New York, a gift he had graciously accepted from the faeries. It was said to knock a man out cold with one sip.

Stiles was planning on taking a few, just to be sure. It wasn't like it could kill him. Although that would be an interesting headstone. "Death by whiskey." Maybe he should tell someone that was what he wanted as an epigraph when he did die.

There were worse ones, after all. Death by chickens sprung to mind.

Stiles was walking back into the living room- which for some undiscernible reason had become his drinking room (don't tell his dad)- when a knock on the door made him change trajectory.

He opened it up only to see Allison, her jaw clenched and eyes flashing. Stiles was so not in the mood to deal with anyone that it wasn't even funny.

Unfortunately human interaction was necessary if he wanted to save Beacon Hills. Sigh.

"Allison." He leaned against the door casually, making no effort to hide the bottle in his hand. She glanced at it once, very carefully staying silent. Stiles appreciated her self control. A lecture was the last thing he wanted to hear right then.

"Derek's an asshole." Stiles had heard worse opening statements. He stayed silent, tapping the neck of the bottle carelessly with his fingers.

Allison took a deep breath, let it out, and faced him dead on. "We were wrong. And I'm not just saying that because you're powerful now, because I'm trying to lure you back into the pack. We were wrong to make any choices about your life, wrong to try and control you in any way. It was arrogant and presumptuous of us to do what we did, and I know that me saying this will never make it better. But I'm sorry, for what it's worth. I have no reasons for doing what I did, and you were right, I should have known better. It never even occurred to me to think about how what I was doing would hurt you in any way, which was a complete and utter hypocritical thing for me to do. As a hunter who runs with wolves, I feel like it's my obligation to make sure other people stay safe, and that's all I was focusing on when we did what we did. But I had no right, and I'm sorry. I don't expect forgiveness, and I won't downplay everything you had to go through or belittle your experiences by asking for it. I came here to tell you that I'm sorry, and that's it. No ulterior motive, no plots. Just me admitting that I'm in the wrong, that we were all in the wrong. And thank you, for protecting us, even with what we did. I don't know why you care about our well-being at all, and I'm certain I wouldn't if I was in your shoes, but thank you none the less. And the rest of them are idiots if they are anything other than grateful."

With that said, she turned to walk back down the path, hair falling like curtains over her face. Stiles stared at her retreating back, then down at the drink in his hand, then back up at her. He sighed loudly.

"Wait." He called out, and Allison stopped walking and turned back around to face him, eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

Stiles stared at her for a few seconds before stepping aside and gesturing into the house. Her hesitation was noticeable.

Stiles rolled his eyes. "I'm not going to stab you, Allison. But I am going to get drunk, so if you want to join me feel free." He left the door open behind him and strolled into his original destination as if he hadn't a care in the world. He collapsed onto the couch, taking a long draught of the faerie potion with his head tilted back.

In complete silence, Allison sat down beside him, motioning wordlessly for the bottle in his hand. He passed it to her, and smirked at her cough when she took a large sip.

"What the hell is that?" She gasped, and Stiles knew exactly the burning throat sensation she was feeling. Intimately.

He lifted the bottle from her loose hands and dragged another gulp down his throat. "Faerie whiskey." He rasped, and a choked off laugh escaped him when Allison's eyes grew wide.

She glanced once at him, then to the bottle. "Oh, screw it." She muttered, before stealing the liquid from his hands and swallowing down a much smaller amount than he had. Stiles smirked at her and lay his head down on the back of the couch, watching everything through half-closed lids.

Upside down, Stiles could just make it out when Isaac, Erica and Boyd stumbled into the room, noses scrunched up from the smell of the mixture. He grinned at them, a nice haze just settling over his thoughts. With a flick of his fingers, he got the other bottle of faerie whiskey from his bag upstairs, catching it deftly as it flew past his face.

Lydia and Jackson, followed by Danny, arrived a few moments later, taking in the three werewolves, hunter and mage passing back and forth a glittering liquid with increasing levels of drunkenness. Lydia let out a huff before appropriating the nearest bottle and gulping it down.

Danny perched on the couch beside Erica, impatiently motioning for the drink.

Stiles watched as they all settled, his brain quiet like it only was under the influence of magic, drugs or drink. It felt... comfortable. Having them all there.

Not quite _pack_ , not really _friends_ , but something.

And their something was going to need a lot more booze if the evening was going to be any fun at all.

Boyd hiccupped beside him, and Stiles laughed quietly.

He was going to get **so** drunk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey look! Is that a Sterek argument I see?  
> So trigger warnings for _this_ chapter;  
>  Mentions of previous scars and injuries.  
> Stiles' extreme guilt.   
> Underage uses of alcohol as a coping method.  
> Mentions of nightmares.  
> Mild-ish language.  
> The hunter Stiles tortured in the last chapter is dead.
> 
> Okay, well that's all I can think off right now. Sorry for the delay, and I'm going to try and be quicker about updating but if you're reading this you know I don't really have a stellar record when it comes to that. Sorry.
> 
> As always, a billion million thanks to everyone who reads, comments, bookmarks, kudos or subscribes, you all make my day! Comments are forever appreciated, and the reception I've gotten from this story is so much better than I ever hoped, so thank you for that!
> 
> Hope you liked this chapter, and if you have any thoughts about the story feel free to drop a comment!  
> Love you all!  
> H.S.F
> 
> P.S. Next chapter we meet a *new* character, Scott and Stiles talk it out, and throw in some rogue brainwashed omegas!


	10. Werewolves and zombies and mages oh my! Yes, Scott, zombies. Like 28 Days Later, but with more magical voodoo shit. No, Scott, I don’t have my own army of zombies. Really, do you think I’d be here if I did?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles uses magic as an extension of his own body, the pack are freaked by the new arrival, and Stiles does not appreciate Derek's territorial nature. Oh yeah, and Scott gets taken. Never a dull moment.

Stiles had drawn magic before he even fully woke up. It hummed and tingled in the palms of his hands, rippled pleasantly along his skin as if saying hello. Then it began to heat up, reacting to his rapidly forming anxiety.

There were _people_ near him. People that weren't Lydia or his dad (the only two people he didn't mind having near him at all when he was asleep- everyone else he barely tolerated), who weren't even any of his friends from New York or anyone whose aura was still lightly touching his- a remainder from two magical beings having sex (and Stiles only slept with magical creatures, the whole glowing eyes pleasure thing would be impossible for a _normal_ human to deal with).

_They were lying near him and **why were they near him when he was sleeping?**_

It took him a few long seconds to recognise them- his eyes were still closed- a few seconds too _long_ if his roiling magic was any indication. Magic didn't like being held, didn't want to be stagnant. Stiles shivered imperceptibly.

There were warm bodies all around him, over and under and _touching_ , reminding him of blank eyes and pale faces, and looking up to see the world grow steadily darker while every beat of his heart burned.

Stiles didn't do well with foreign touches, uninvited contact. Hadn't for months.

Erica's foot lay under his knees, Isaac's head pillowed on his stomach, Boyd's elbow in the dip of his collarbone, Allison's back and head rested on his shins and Jackson's fingers brushed his hip bones.

_Too much._

Stiles was careful to be as quiet and gentle as possible given the situation, but his heartbeat was frantic like a bird's in his ears and it took a touch of magic to keep the wolves asleep. His magic briefly rejected the wish before subsiding, reluctant to dismiss the sleeping forms as threats, and preferring to take the fight to them rather than the other way around.

Stiles forced it down with the smallest clench of his fists.

Once free of the puppy-pile (and he could remember loving them, recall feeling _happy_ and _loved_ whenever he took part, and it seemed his destiny to eventually grow to be wary of things he once enjoyed, which was a _way_ too depressing thought for early in the morning, or, well, _ever_ ) Stiles bent over and placed his arms on his knees.

Breathing deep and even, it would have been impossible for anyone to tell of the panic attack that squeezed his insides. _Deep breaths_ , he reminded himself, mentally checking all that his faculties were in order, physical and otherwise, even though he knew it was stupid.

Even though he _knew_ with every bone in his body that not one member of the pack in his living room would hurt him (he made no account for the two glaringly obvious absent members- and ignoring the hurt the pack had already caused).

But over a year of surviving the impossible and almost constantly being alert forced him to double check, his heart rate refusing to lower while there was even a shadow of a doubt. He relaxed marginally when the full body check was complete, all his abilities present and accounted for. No one had slipped him something to bury his magic, or control his movements, or _anything_. It was kind of sad how hard it was for him to believe that.

The raging hangover that should have accompanied the night they'd had (Jackson had imperiously delivered an _entire box_ of wolfsbane-laced whiskey upon his arrival) was noticeably absent, replaced by a tender buzzing in the back of his mind that always followed his magic. It was oddly reassuring at times.

His adrenaline rush and subsequent magical meltdown had served to wipe any trace of a hangover from his body. He was as functional and coherent as he's ever been, and his go-to reality I-really-hope-I-haven't-been-possessed-again check (listing off the 176 different ways to kill a person using only spells that began with the letter 't'- morbid, yes, but no less efficient for it) proved that he was actually in the world of the living, which was always nice.

So it was a mere five minutes after his impromptu and borderline dramatic waking up that Stiles was back to his usual calmness, a feat damn hard to do.

But at least he wasn't being hunted this time. Certainly made it easier.

Stiles glanced down at the sleeping pack, eagle-spread on the sitting room floor, over-lapping and snoring softly with goofy drunken grins on their faces, and he'd never felt more alone. He committed the picture to memory, would use it as an encouragement in hard times and as a reminder of what would be lost should he fail.

Sighing, he walked into the kitchen and poured himself a glass of water, holding the cool liquid to his forehead before drinking. In one quick gulp, he swallowed it down, throwing his head back as he did so. It slid easily down the back of his throat, and helped relieve the feeling of panic that had overtaken him for that one brief moment.

He pushed his arms into the counter after dropping the glass into the stainless sink, allowing his head to fall between his arms. He was so tired. Tired of controlling himself, restraining the magic within that only wanted to be _challenged_ , tired of the nightmares and the guilt of everything he'd never managed to do, all those he hadn't been able to save, tired of being so _damn tired_ all the time.

Didn't matter that he was getting more sleep than he usually did, because it was only through drinking and while Stiles enjoyed the odd night out as much as the next all-powerful and responsible bisexual mage, alcoholism had never been a career path he was interested in.

Unfortunately, as it was one of the, admittedly, few ways he could get any sleep, it had been more and more common a pattern in his life. He'd deal with it later. Maybe.

Damn his brain. And he had thought ADHD was bad.

Throw in PTSD, anxiety, hyper-vigilance, paranoia, possible sociopathic tendencies, a _complete_ lack of any self-preservation to speak of and an unhealthy addiction to saving people and ignoring his own needs, and Stiles was a walking-talking baggage filled _mess_.

But at least he could admit it. Small mercies.

Shooting a last cautious glance at the sleeping bodies, Stiles carefully stepped up the stairs and into his room, shutting the door behind him with finality and a released breath of relief.

He leant against it, letting his head thump back on the hard wood and not even batting an eyelid at the light burst of pain it caused, keeping his breathing even by counting. _One in, two out, three in, four out, five in..._

By the time he reached a hundred his mind was clear, his eyes calm and his shoulders less tense. He was the picture of composed.

With a few quick steps he reached his desk, rifling through the papers looking for one in particular. Finding it, he materialised a pencil and began making small notes and adjustments to the spell, scribbling down thoughts he had had and wisdom he's gained from experience.

The spell was flawed, as they all were, and he could not afford that. It had to be perfect, infallible, final and absolute. No loop-holes.

He flicked open a nearby book for reference, waving his fingers to quickly skim over the notes he didn't want, the spells he had no need for. Glancing at it briefly, he adjusted something else on his spell, exchanging a word while wordlessly mouthing the line.

Frowning, Stiles flopped down onto the carpeted floor, magically dragging an old trunk full of other books towards him. He shoved it open and had to refrain from coughing at the dust- some of the texts were centuries old and prone to attracting dust molecules like Stiles did trouble. That was to say, a lot.

Pages and books began levitating around him, their pages fluttering like butterflies wings as he jumped from one to another, his magic judging what was necessary as much as he was. Books that held no relevant information- like one he had on unicorns and their powers- were dismissed and packed back into the box, while others- specifically those that focused on demons and ancient spells- were left open in the air.

The occasional word or two caught his attention, dragging his gaze from book to sheet to diary and back again, encouraging him to pluck random items from the chaos and hunch over them, all the while frantically scribbling and adjusting his own spell, leaving no room for escape.

The spell he was trying to create was an impossibility, a trap and a death sentence and a protection all in one. He had to combine a way to get the boundary around Beacon Hills up, and a way to kill the demon without leaving anything unaccounted for. It was idiotically dangerous, fool-hardy and reckless, and might not work at all, but it was their only hope. It _had_ to work. There was no other option.

Soon he was scrawled on the ground, ancient tomes and priceless manuscripts dating all the way back to the 14th century spread around him, magical marks glistening between pages for cross-referencing and noting, Stiles' rushed script slanted across it all.

His main page was almost indecipherable, things crossed out and written in and scribbled out so many times it was its own code. A ripped page on hell lay by his elbow, a huge encyclopaedia on demons floating above his head.

There were still residual marks, left overs from excursions and misadventures long past, an entire _essay_ on the uses of toadstools in deception spells taking up a multitude of pages as if he'd written it barely conscious. It wouldn't be far from the truth.

His eyes flicked from word to word, drinking in the knowledge offered hungrily and planning his attack, making connections between information and forming concepts quicker than his own mind could keep up, jumping from idea to idea like it was all he was put on the earth to do, a floating page above him keeping track of it all.

Information was compared and displayed, linking with everything else and expanding, history and theory and facts and experience adding up until it all made sense, until he couldn't _breathe_ with it all.

It was intoxicating, the feeling, doing the thing he had always been great at, making leaps of faith based on fact and assumptions that proved to be correct.

It was a incredible system, useful and awe-inspiring in equal measures, more magic than physical labour.

His eyes read the constantly shifting and changing sentences floating in the air as easily as they did the ones written on plain paper, finishing thoughts and conclusions before he even began reading.

There was a method to the madness, a hawk-eyes intensity in how he inspected all the information at his disposal, a frightening glint of plotting and planning in his eyes.

Later, he wouldn't be able to say how long he was in that area where reality meant nothing, time and little things like physical bodies melting away under the feverish rush of constant magic, the echoing speech and halted sentences of times long past, speaking of souls departed and spells and cures and cursesdemonsghostsvisionsdeathlifeend-

The pack found him like that, his eyes glowing, and they were shocked into silence.

...

Stiles' blatant use of magic, though as natural to him as breathing, was none the less impressive for it, and none of the gathered pack had seen much more than the occasional mountain ash line or spelled body.

They'd never seen magic used like Stiles was currently, more like an expansion of his own body than a tool, rabbit-quick and decisive, flitting and pushing like Stiles' own brain. They were struck dumb upon first glance, eyeing the various floating materials that hung suspended by nothing but will, the eerie blank yet focused expression on Stiles' face.

They didn't want to interrupt him, and he hadn't even noticed them standing not inconspicuously in the doorway. In the end, though, they didn't have much say in the matter.

Lydia was heard pulling up outside, then the slam of a door and the pounding clack of her heels on the floor. She hurried straight up to Stiles' bedroom as if she knew were they where, ignoring the living room and kitchen, marching like a woman on a mission.

She stalked past the assembled pack, glaring at them in lieu of any greeting, and into the storm Stiles' room had become.

She sighed when she saw him. "Oh, Stiles." Came the concerned and sad murmur, her eyes worried. She carefully picked her way through the room, occasionally batting away an object of stationary that was determined to whack her head.

She slowed when she reached the centre of the hurricane, kneeling down in front of Stiles as if he were a child.

"Stiles honey?" She asked, but he didn't respond, still muttering seemingly random strings of letters and feverishly writing it down on sheets of paper. His eyes continued to glow, but it looked weaker than it had when they first arrived. They were hazy, unfocused, as if he was looking somewhere other than in front of himself.

Lydia pursed her lips, but couldn't hide the _worry_ running rampant through her face. The pack were only a little bit jealous of her and Stiles' relationship. A little.

"Stiles?" She tried again, but this time her voice brokered no nonsense, was resigned rather than upset. When Stiles _still_ gave no response, Lydia cursed darkly.

Jackson jumped and stared at her, as did the Betas. They’d never really heard Lydia curse. Always assumed she didn’t.

Allison wasn’t fazed, instead watching the interaction with fascination and more than a touch concern.

“Stiles, if someone tells you that everything they say is a lie is that the truth or a lie?”

The pack stare at her in confusion, wondering what the hell that had to do with anything. When, “S’paradox.”

Stiles’ raspy voice murmured, blinking slowly as the golden haze began to wear from his iris’.

Lydia didn’t relax then though. “What happens when an unstoppable force meets an immovable object? “

Stiles blinked rapidly again, and his voice came out stronger and more assured when he spoke once more.

“It’s a paradox.” He told her with a small smile, and only then did Lydia relax. She hit him gently on the arm, hiding a smile, before kissing him on the brow. Stiles leaned into her touch, grabbing her hand as it passed by and holding it between two of his own.

“I’m okay, Lyds. Just in the zone.”

Lydia waved his reassurances away, but her shoulder dropped an inch more and her face smoothed out. “’Course you are, Stiles. You’re too stubborn to be anything else.”

He grinned dopily in response, before making a move to sit up. “Oh.” He muttered, noticing the still floating objects that hung in the air. He made a quick gesture with his hand, allowing them to sink slowly towards the floor before landing with soft thuds on the plush carpet.

In one graceful move, Stiles stood up from his position on the floor but then he swayed and froze.

“Lydia,” He groaned, and she took a step toward him while the rest of the pack had to resist the urge to do the same.

“The world is spinning, make it stop spinning.”

The wolves and hunter shared a look. What the fuck did that mean? Was Stiles delirious?

Lydia, however, didn’t seem to share their confusion, instead rolling her eyes before reaching forward and slapping Stiles hard across the cheek. The wolves flinched at the impact and Stiles' head went snapping back, but he made no move to block the hit.

With a sudden burst of light in his eyes and a clarity in his expression that had been lacking before, Stiles shook his head and tried to smile.

“Thanks, Lyds. Little help?”

Lydia darted forward under his arm and let him rest his weight on her, her arm circling his waist while he took a second to close his eyes and wait for the dizziness to pass.

He took a step forward, paused, grimaced, and took another, ignoring the worried wolves flitting around the doorway, unsure if their assistance was required or wanted.

Lydia secured her grip on his shirt and let him lean on her, more than what was probably necessary to the wolves' eyes. Or maybe it wasn't. It wasn't like they had any clue.

The pack moved backwards without thinking as the duo stepped into the doorway, and Lydia stopped to let Stiles rest his head against the plain wooden frame. He shuddered and gripped the wall with tense, clenched fingers, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed.

"Stiles?" Lydia asked, and the pack were aware that the exchange was one they weren't supposed to hear, but they listened anyway,

Stiles tapped his long fingers against the wall instead of responding, thumping his head back and letting a wry smile cross his features as if he knew the question Lydia was going to ask him and already had his response prepared.

"When was the last time you ate anything?" Maybe Lydia didn't mean for her voice and tone to sound so accusatory, but somehow Allison doubted it.

The pack shot each other amused glances. What did she mean by that? Stiles never _stopped_ eating. It was something they all used to tease him about, how he had the appetite of a wolf. He was always seen with food nearby or in hand, had a nearly permanent supply of curly fries for any occasion.

They didn't need to see Stiles to know that _that_ at least would never change. But they heard Lydia's question, saw the anxious expression on her face, and, despite themselves, they wondered.

Stiles laughed lightly with just a touch of artfully played surprise, his eyes glittering with humour, and maybe anybody else wouldn't have seen the smallest crack in his cheery façade. But Lydia obviously did, and the pack knew _her_ enough at least to read his response through her.

"Lydia." The chastisement was gentle, as if it was absurd of her to even suggest such a thing, but Lydia didn't back down.

"Stiles." She rebuked, and Stiles simply rolled his eyes fondly and shrugged a shoulder, purposefully casual in his movements, deliberately relaxed but running with an undercurrent of tension that put the animal sides of the pack present on edge.

 **Danger!** , they seemed to scream, **Predator!**

"I don't know, Lyds. Who keeps track of when they eat anyway? Probably last night or something."

You didn't have to be a werewolf to tell the lie. Lydia's sceptical look and Stiles' own forced nonchalance was enough.

They were interrupted then by the knocking of the front door, and Stiles' face seemed to go through equal parts relief and wariness before settling on ambiguousness.

"He's here." He told Lydia, and she scowled at the timely interruption and flashed him a quick look that the pack correctly translated as _this-isn't-over_.

She then tilted her chin up and assisted Stiles down the stairs and into the hall, releasing him with only a slightly unhappy look. The pack tried to discreetly sniff the air, but there was no scent in the wind. In fact, there was such a distinct non-scent that it reminded them briefly of...no.

Stiles pulled the door open with one raised eyebrow and crossed his arms.

"Do you have it?" He asked bluntly, and the man in the doorway blinked at him in reply before stepping into the house smoothly.

"Is that any way to treat a guest, Stiles?" He asked, before smiling his creepy smile and handing over a black case.

The pack could only stand in shock as Peter Hale nodded his head once to Stiles and Lydia, before turning to face them. He clapped his hands together once and grinned. It was rather terrifying.

"So!" His intense eyes alit on all of them in turn. "Do you know where I can find my nephew? He and I have urgent business to attend to. Like how awfully he treated Stiles here. Honestly, you'd think he was raised by wolves."

Stiles let out a bark of laughter and shook his head ruefully. "Always the comedian, aren't you Peter?"

Peter smiled at him with something akin to fondness, and the pack were mildly astonished at how... _alive_ it made him look.

This was so not going to go down well with their Alpha.

...

Pain laced down his spine. Derek whirled to face the Omega and snarled in anger, the inch deep claw marks on his ribs burning and itching unpleasantly. It hurt like a bitch, but even as he lashed out and roared they were healing- scabbing together to stop the blow flow.

Sometimes being an Alpha had its perks.

The Omega growled at him, eyes yellow, before jumping up and using a nearby tree as a push off point. He crashed into him, teeth bared and feral.

They rolled around on the ground, fighting for dominance, until Derek caught him by the shoulders and threw him backwards. He crashed against the ground, his bones making a snapping noise as he hit the dirt.

Whining pitifully, the Omega clawed the ground and tugged himself forward, scrabbling on his back.

He let out a loud, desperate howl, which was cut off by Derek’s jaws snapping shut on his ankle.

The howl trailed off into a coarse groan, his feet kicking uselessly against the Alpha’s shoulders.

Suddenly, a flare of bright light blinded Derek, who yelped and dropped the Omega’s leg, clutching at his head.

The last thing he saw before blankness was the limping figure of the lone wolf as he ran.

…

He woke up sore and angry as all hell, his face pressed flat into the dirt and the scent of it filling his nostrils. His head snapped up to inspect the clearing- empty- and his eyes burned crimson.

Snarling, Derek pushed himself off the ground and wiped futilely at the dead leaves clinging to his skin.

 _What the hell was that?_ He wondered, glancing up to try and tell how much time had passed.

It couldn’t have been that long, the moon was still in roughly the same position and the cuts on his torso still faded red bruises.

Rolling his shoulders, the Alpha sniffed the air, catching the scent with relative ease and tilting his lip up to growl.

Fucking Omegas in _his_ territory. If it hadn’t been for that light, he would have taken down the _pup_ easily.

Might not even have killed him, hadn’t planned in attacking him until he was provoked. Any Alpha would’ve done the same in his position. Didn’t help the pacing wolf inside him anxious to tear into the flesh of the wolf who dared infringe upon his territory any.

Derek prowled after the wolf, all his senses keen and alert, ears pricked for any sign of danger.

So it was with some surprise and not a small amount of trepidation that he realised the trail led straight to Stiles’ house.

Stiles, who he hadn’t spoken to since their disastrous meeting the day before. Stiles, who had rightfully and understandably raged at him, and who he wasn’t ashamed to admit he was too much of a coward to face so soon.

But if the Omega hurt him…

Derek snarled at the thought. _Okay!_ he thought, _note to self- avoid any and all thoughts about Stiles being-well, yeah._

His wolf huffed in agreement. Temperamental beast.

The trail stopped cold a few scant metres from Stiles’ house, and Derek frowned past the fangs.

He went to take a step forward, but was prevented from putting his foot on the ground by a barrier.

Stiles had warded his house. Against _Derekincredibly_ unsuitable for the situation.

But Stiles looked _good_ in confidence, walked well with surety, and goddamn it Derek was only human! Or, well, not quite human but the statement stood for itself.

They stared at each other for far too long, interrupted finally by the impatient release of breath somewhere behind Stiles.

Erica strode out from behind the door, and Stiles made no move to stop her, gaze still locked on Derek’s.

“Erica?” Derek asked, and his brow furrowed, the wolf visage he’d been wearing as protection falling from his now-human face.

Ignoring him, she turned to Stiles. “Look, the UST’s all well and good,” And Stiles flashed a patient smile at her, not once looking back to Derek once their eye contact had been broken, “But we do have the matter of our house-guest to deal with.”

Derek snarled. “You have the Omega?” He demanded, voice guttural. Erica flinched back at the Alpha command that wasn’t _really_ a command, but Stiles just shot him a glare.

“Pipe down, Lassie. For your information, your Omega passed through a good half an hour ago asking for directions and I sent him on his merry-way. With,” He pointed one long elegant finger at Derek trying for teasing, but his statement was underlined with real anger and threat that _should_ , if he had any sense of preservation, have sent Derek and his wolf growling or running (Stiles was powerful enough to incite both in him, at the same time. It really was inconvenient) _not_ turning him on. “A magical charm that hides his scent from you because he really only wanted passage you complete Neanderthal. So don’t even **think** about going after him.”

Screw it, he’d never claimed to be logical. Just animal instincts. Survival of the fittest, and all that. Nothing to see here.

Wait.

“Did you just call me ‘Lassie’?” He asked incredulously.

Stiles sighed with dismay or disgust (the two were not mutually exclusive) and shook his head to Erica.

“They tell me werewolves have enhanced hearing, but most of the time it seems more like selective.”

Erica laughed outright.

Slowly, as though aware the danger had passed, the rest of the pack (Derek’s pack, what the _fuck_ were they doing at _Stiles’_?) stepped into the yard, the invisible boundary still separating the Alpha from them.

At least they were safe, he commented idly in his head to his placid should-be-snarling wolf.

Allison. Isaac. Boyd. Erica. Jackson. Lydia, unsurprisingly. And wait, was that…?

“Peter?!” Derek burst out, shock lacing his tone and brain scrambling to catch up with the new development.

Peter glanced at Stiles from the corner of his eye, who nodded absent-mindedly, before speaking. What was _that_ all about?

“Ah, Nephew. Long-time no see. You and I have a pressing need to discuss some…. things.”

Stiles waved his hand imperiously. “Later, Peter. There’s urgent business that needs attending to first.”

Derek was expecting Peter to argue and fight, but instead his insane back-from-the-dead uncle capitulated. He _stopped_ , even though every signal his body was sending out hinted that stopping was the _last_ thing he wanted to do.

Stiles and _Peter_? Of course there were worse people for his uncle to listen to, but really, _Peter_?

Derek tried to convince himself that what he was feeling wasn’t jealousy, nope, not at all.

Fuck.

Shaking his head to clear it, he turned his face towards Stiles.

“What’s the business?”

Stiles pursed his lips before shaking his head.

“Get Scott, I’m not going to explain this more than once.”

Derek frowned. “I thought he was with you.”

Stiles slowly froze, all muscles in his body tense. “What do you mean, Derek?”

Derek tried to fight the prickling feeling of **danger** that ran along the hairs of his arm and the back of his neck at Stiles’ manner. He was an _Alpha_ damn it.

“I haven’t seen him since yesterday.” Their eyes met again, before Stiles whirled on his heels and faced the assembled wolves, banshee and hunter.

They shook their heads mutely, and there was a dangerous glint in Stiles’ eyes when he faced forward again.

“They have him.” His voice resonated deep within, inhuman and void, echoing and slithering along Derek’s senses.

He didn’t ask who they were, just stood and watched as Stiles’ face shuttered and he vanished into the wind. Again.

Peter coughed once at some invisible dust in the air before motioning to Lydia (who rolled her eyes at him) and meandering inside.

Maybe Stiles did the whole ‘vanishing into thin air’ thing a lot. Peter sure acted like he did, and even Lydia was nonchalant about the whole thing. But then, she _had_ spent an inordinate amount of time in communication with Stiles.

Peter seemed even _less_ worried about the whole thing, which, if it weren’t for the smallest hint of fondness in his gaze when he had stood beside Stiles, Derek might have been inclined to believe was just apathy.

Which brought him right back around to Stiles and Peter.

Sitting on the ground outside Stiles’ house, Derek settled in for a long night.

If it was anyone else, Derek wouldn’t trust them to get his Beta back, but this was _Stiles_. If he couldn’t do it, there was no way in hell Derek could do it.

And the fact that he trusted Stiles that much in the first place brought an anxious pit to his stomach.

It wasn’t like he had a choice, really.

Stiles was going to get Scott back. And then Derek could deal with the fact that he and his wolf trusted the virtual stranger to keep _Derek’s pack safe._

Or maybe he could ignore it.

Yeah. That might be better. No point in making things complicated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's Peter!
> 
> Sorry, I'm sorry, that was terrible. Also, I'm writing this on 3G because my internet is an idiot and I haven't had WiFi for a week and a bit, I know that's no excuse, so so sorry.
> 
> Tried to write this a few times but have been _completely_ inspiration-less and uninspired for the last month, eventually sat down and forced myself to get something out so if it's not up to my usual standards I'm sorry. *juts out bottom lip and puppy-dog eyes*
> 
> Plus, some people are wondering why Stiles cares for the pack at all so I figure I'd better clarify here. While, yes, the pack made no move to stop Stiles leaving, it was genuinely out of concern and the key players in kicking him out were Derek and Scott.
> 
> Warnings for language, kinda?-loss of awareness, blatant magic use, brief fighting between two half-shifted wolves, and Peter's there so that automatically bumps up the crazy to at least 80%. Maybe 84%.
> 
> As forever, the response to this story has been breath-taking, soul-saving and generally amazing!! So a million billion thanks to everyone who commented, gave kudos, subscribed, spread the word or read, it means the world to me! :D
> 
> Updates well, I'm not even going to jinx myself here, so as soon as I can get it written it'll be up. Sooner, if I can manage it! ;)
> 
> Okay, think that's all. If I've forgotten anything, drop a comment, and all comments are muchly appreciated!
> 
> (Also, who is excited by the Martian??? Haven't seen it yet, might be seeing it this weekend, so looking forward to it!)
> 
> Love,  
> H.S.F


	11. Your stupidity astounds me and exasperates me in equal measures. I don’t know which to focus on. Give me a minute to think about it.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles goes and threatens some hunters, Peter and Derek have a 'family' talk and a pack reunion reveals more than intended.

_The thing is,_ Stiles mused as he cracked a hunter's nose against the curve of his knee (it gave a gratifying crunch when he did so- he was fairly sure it was broken, which, you know, could only be a _good_ thing, really) and threw a knife with devastating accuracy at the reaching hand of another reaching for her gun, _is that the hunters don't even pose a **challenge** to him anymore_.

Which could be seen as equally good or bad, depending on what mood Stiles was in.

 _I mean, sure, me_ , Stiles muttered, low enough under his breath so as not to be overheard while absentmindedly stamping on someone's ankle and firing a bolt of lightning in the general direction of a threat, _I'll admit I can be a tad, 'imposing', as well as being (luckily) a damn hard person to kill, but come the fuck on._

They couldn't even hold a damned **Beta** for longer than eight hours before Stiles found them. And for seven hours forty-five minutes of that he was unaware there was even a problem let alone a missing person. That would need to be rectified immediately. He couldn't afford to go into this not knowing where his people were.

That would only get them all killed.

Which, typically, would be all Stiles' fault if it happened, not to mention the fact that he didn't particularly _want_ to be the reason for the deaths of _everyone_ in Beacon Hills.

But back to the hunters. Wasn't it their _job_ , not that Stiles approved in any way shape or form but he was aware of the facts, to capture and hold werewolves? What in hell's name did they _do_ with their time if they couldn't even do _that_ properly.

Stiles reached behind him and snapped the wrist of a hunter, who howled in pain and fear. _Howling? Who's the wolf now, you son of a demon?_ Stiles thought viciously, eyes flaring a deep scarlet as he grinned savagely. This was _fun_.

He side-stepped an eager, sweaty man running towards him, bringing his hand around to enclose the man's neck as he did so. His nails dug into the bigot's skin, leaving half-crescent grooves, and Stiles pushed a current of magic through the hunter with his hand.

The man froze instantly before falling to the filthy floor with a gasp like a stranded fish.

Stiles felt a gun being held to the back of his head and he paused.

"Don't move." The hunter's voice shook almost imperceptibly and _fuck_ , he sounded like a goddamned _kid_.

The man-boy could have been no older than sixteen, and he sounded terrified, and he _sounded like Scott_. Pre-bite Scott, with the hitching uneven breaths and sniffles, the grim determination to completely bury any lingering feelings or thoughts that might be perceived as a weakness.

Stiles could remember being that scared, faced with impossible odds and little to no chances of survival, a best friend turned supernatural creature and enemies in the hearts of their allies.

Fuck. Fucking hunters. Fucking discrimination. Fucking _life_.

Stiles whirled around on his toes suddenly, grasped the gun by its muzzle (do not try at home, seriously) and pointed it directly sky-ward in case the man-boy decided to fire straight in his face. Stiles didn't doubt that his wards would stop the speeding metal bullet, but no doubt the boy would then panic and try to attack, and just waste time. Stiles could _not_ afford to do so.

The young hunter didn't fire, though. He just watched Stiles with wide, fearful eyes, to young and inexperienced to do anything other than shake. But perhaps Stiles was being hypocritical, using 'young' as a synonym for inexperienced. He couldn't particularly talk, when he had fought for his life at the same age and taken a life himself soon after.

Stiles didn't move, ignoring the groans and whimpers from the incapacitated idiots behind him. Coming to a decision, he looked the sixteen-year old straight in the face.

"Find another _profession_. Do something else with your life. Think for yourself, and don't just blindly follow orders. Take my advice," Stiles chanced a quick glance over his shoulder, one of the hunters had rolled do his knees somehow (a terrible oversight on Stiles' part, truly, he shouldn't have been able to _breathe_ properly let alone _move_ ) and was glaring at him with all the intensity of a bug.

 _If looks could kill_ , Stiles thought, _I'd still be alive_.

"And just. Get the hell out. I'm not your enemy, kid." He didn't only mean get out of the building. His unspoken advice hopefully went through loud and clear.

The man-boy started (could you still call someone a boy, Stiles wondered idly, when they had to do what he did?) when Stiles called him a 'kid', that familiar spark of defiance in his eyes that spoke of a hidden courage and, oddly, a hidden _morality_ that many people Stiles fought lacked.

Stiles smirked at him before smoothly, in one twist of his wrist and sudden jerking motion, cracking him over the back of his head with the butt of his own gun. Just 'cuz he didn't want to kill the guy didn't mean he was stupid enough to leave him conscious when the same probably wasn't true in reverse.

Stiles glanced around airily; upon his (swift, punishing and downright _brutal_ ) arrival to the warehouse- which, hello, stereotype much?- the hunters' leaders had scarpered. Must have heard what had happened to the last arrogant batch of hunters who thought they could pull something in _Stiles'_ town.

They had hidden in a locked office which, wow, new levels of idiocy, and fruitlessly hoped that Stiles wouldn't knock out their entire first line of defence.

Fruitlessly, as, as the motionless bodies of the hunters behind him could attest, Stiles wasn't about to be taken down by some unintelligent _humans_. He had fought demons, monsters, shadows of nightmares, the fears that hid under beds and the ghosts of evil long gone.

He had faced the impossible, looked death in the face, did all those things heroes gloried about in fairy-tales and myths, and _he had survived_.

"Sleep." He told the kneeling hunter. Eyes rolled to the back of his skull and he collapsed flat on his face. Hunters had _zero_ tolerance for magic. It really was quite funny. Limited the amount of fight he could get from them, but made his job a hell of a lot easier. Still boring. Stiles gave his sleeping body the withering, infamous one-eyebrow raised look that all supernatural creatures tried (and usually failed) to pull off.

It seemed to be the signature werewolf trait, inspiring fear and anxiety in all who faced it. Stiles, he felt, had managed quite well for a non-wolf.

With an elegant stretch of his legs, he casually stepped over the bodies on the floor and strolled over to the door that the leaders were hiding behind, like _cowards_ and sending their people to their deaths.

Stiles grinned savagely as he burst the door down, hands stretched in front of him for dramatic flair, eyes flaring golden-crimson-ivy and every colour in between, a kaleidoscope of magic and power and protectiveness/possessiveness masquerading as confidence.

He wasn't scared, because the hunters were in _his_ town, and maybe he wasn't on the best terms with Scott at the moment, but that did _not_ give them the right to take one of Stiles'.

There was a swift pulsing in the air and in his wards, and then a brief splash of pain broke through his psyche.

He glanced down, surprised, to see a budding dash of red crimson liquid spill gently over the fabric of his thin shirt.

He cocked his head and pulled the fabric from his skin, gently probing the wound and hissing through his teeth when the burn intensified.

 _Fascinating_.

He slowly drew his eyes upwards, fixing the tensed woman in front of him with an icy chilling smile, eyes alighting on the weapon she held with no small amount of trepidation. The weapon that was aimed right at his face.

Stiles' eyes flared when he recognised the small, light-weight gun she was holding. The runes etched into the cold steel mocked him, the pure _evil_ emanating from it digging deeper into the hole in the side of his chest.

That _particular_ weapon was forged in the very fires of hell- which, fucked up as it was, wasn't even a joke, or a metaphor. The gun had been _literally_ created in the deepest, darkest depths of hell, made especially for breaking through and disintegrating magic defensive shields.

Stiles could have been layered in magic, behind a mountain ash barrier, and holding a goddamned talisman and the bullets from its chambers still would've ripped through his flesh. While it was vaguely comforting that his shields hadn't spontaneously collapsed and left him vulnerable to normal human weapons, the fact that these hunters possessed a weapon that was so rare few people even knew of its existence led him right to a conclusion he hadn't wanted to think of.

They were working for Baalberith. No one else had the power, inclination or need to own that weapon, not when it should have been safely guarded between layers of ancient magic so thick it would've taken months, or _years_ to break through.

Stiles had never seen the bastardised gun before, luckily, because it had been taken out of commission centuries before he was even a thought in the wind.

Which meant, of course, that somehow his greatest enemy and foe had managed the impossible.

And if he was so blasé with it as to give it to a group of weak, inexperienced hunters such as these, that could only mean that he had either _no need if it_ or that he was in the process or even finished making _more_.

Stiles wasn't sure which option was more terrifying.

Absently, he wrapped a vein of magic around the fallen silent, cowering adults behind the woman, restricting the amount of oxygen getting into their lungs and causing them to lose consciousness.

Her companions collapsed silently one by one, leaving the woman standing unknowingly alone, the wall to her back covered in the lax bodies of her so-called 'support'.

Stiles didn't make a move outside tilting his head, eyes caught on the gun that- had she been a better shot or he a slower target- would have killed him.

It was a freezing thought when he still had so much to do. He couldn't die from that gun. Wouldn't permit himself to.

He smiled once, benignly at the hunter, utilising every ounce of hyperactive, teenaged spaz he could.

She lowered her gun when greeted with his tactic, not much, not enough to take it off his body, not when he was still such a huge threat, but she was obviously used to dealing with wolves (who although fast wouldn't be able to move before she got in a shot), and humans' natural discomfort in the face of either pure evil or pure good encouraged her to dislike the gun automatically, wanting it as far away from her person as possible.

All this combined made her lower the muzzle, just a centimetre or two, barely enough. but _enough_.

Stiles jolted his index finger in a movement too quick to be captured by the human eye and snapped her wrist with a nearby chair.

She yelled and dropped the gun, and Stiles instantaneously shoved the chair downwards and over it, shoving them both into the far corner with a pained flinch when his magic came into contact with the cool steel, _seeking and searching and screamsendlessscreams of painangerfeartormentguilt and the only possible definition of evil all enclosed in one weapon, maliciously sending tendrils and stabs into **his** magic_.

Stiles pulled back with a barely restrained sigh of relief, and the hunter's eyes widened with the realisation that she was now defenceless and powerless.

Suddenly Stiles was angry. No, not just angry. Stiles was _pissed_. He was enraged. He was beyond all comprehension of 'just anger'.

His eyes burned out all traces of colours, slipping into the inky blackness he both hated and felt irreversibly linked to.

" **Where. Is. He.** " His voice trembled with power, but he spoke no louder than normal, letting his eyes and body-language do all the shouting for him.

The hunter jutted a fearful chin out arrogantly, avoiding his endless pools of darkness in favour of covering herself with a thin, flimsy layer of fake confidence.

"Wouldn't you like to know?" She sneered at him, her fear thick and cloying in the air. Stiles smiled at her gently, but his eyes remained hard.

He grabbed her by the throat and slammed her into the wall, where she tripped over the limbs of her compatriots, fear twisting a path over her face.

He leaned in close to her face, eyes peering into hers like he could peer into her soul, voice dangerous.

"Yes, I would. And I will do whatever it takes to get that information."

She battered down her rising hysteria and stamped down on his foot. Stiles didn't even flinch.

"Why? So you can go drag that dog back by his leash? Is he your _friend_? Are you gonna tame him?"

Stiles clenched his fingers on her jugular, eyeing the frail but vital skin thoughtfully.

"This isn't what that's about." He said finally, pleasantly, as if conversing the weather. She scrabbled at his unyielding grip, face turning purple.

"At the moment, we're not exactly on the _best_ of terms. Completely his fault of course. I mean, dumping me for a threesome with Allison and Isaac? Which is totally happening by the way, no matter what Scott tries to convince himself. You can practically _smell_ the lust just when Allison and Isaac are in the same room, and Scott's scent is _all over_ Allison, and Isaac gets this look whenever either of them are mentioned, so don't even try and convince me it's not happening. Where was I again? Oh right."

Stiles grinned at her toothily, and if it weren't for the hand at her neck and the emotionless blackness of his gaze they could have been two friends talking about school.

"So we're not on the best of terms, and to be honest I don't think we'll ever be what we once were. Which, you know, sucks, because we had a seriously epic bromance going on. Like Spock/Kirk levels of bromance. Anyway, so yeah, I may be _beyond_ unhappy with that idiot's life choices, and right now I'm just as likely to punch him as I am to hug him, but you see, there's one small problem with you thinking you can walk right up and take him."

A deep crimson slowly spread over his iris', the black ring receding until his eyes were equal parts blood and death, a slow promise that could be mistaken as a caress.

"Beacon Hills is under my protection. The wolves are under my protection. The pack is under my protection. _He_ is under _my_ protection. For all intents and purposes, he is _one of mine_. And those that hurt mine don't live to tell the tale. I will find him one way or another, and you _will_ die one way or another, it's only the question of how, and how painful I can make it. So, tell me. Where is the Beta werewolf you were stupid enough to attempt to capture?"

The hunter gasped for breath when he released pressure on her windpipe enough for her to be able to speak. She stuttered once, abdomen shaking and shoulders tensing.

"We- We don't have him." She gasped out finally, arms digging into the skin of his wrist.

Stiles laughed. "Of course you don't." He told her condescendingly, enjoying the flash of confusion his statement caused. "But you _did_. And I want to know where is he now."

The hunter tightened her jaw and shook her head desperately. "Please...!" She blurted out and Stiles watched her from under heavy lids.

"He'll kill me!" She cried out, and Stiles swallowed the urge to rip her throat out with his teeth. Messy? Definitely. Poetically ironic? Depended on your definition of ironic.

Stiles raised his shoulders in the universal gesture of a shrug.

"He'll kill you anyway." He reasoned, and the hunter widened her eyes. He scoffed. "Of course he would. He's a _demon_."

"You-you know him?" She demanded breathlessly, all lingering traces of possible anger hidden by her need for oxygen.

Stiles smirked at her once. "I killed him. Blew him sky high. Killed myself in the process." He added as an afterthought, and the hunter shook under his heavily impossible statement.

"He isn't dead." She said, a sort of sick pride colouring her voice, and Stiles tightened his grip on her throat in response.

"Regardless. Doesn't matter what you did, he would have killed you. You and _everyone_ you knew. And he would have made it painful. Would've drawn it out, with torture and murder and pain. And that's if you helped him. I can hardly even imagine what he would've done to you had you betrayed him. And I was in hell myself, for a time." ( _Nightmares and darkness and nothingness_ )

He casually used his free hand to push back the hair covering his eyes, but kept the other secured on her throat.

"Me? If you tell me what I want to know, I'll make it quick, I promise. You won't even feel it. But if you don't tell me, I'll have to resort to desperate measures."

Stiles let the smile slowly slide from his face, dropping his head until he was watching her with intense eyes, the heavy bags under his eyes lit by the overhead light.

"I don't necessarily like using desperate measures, just like I don't necessarily like the werewolf you've captured but as I'm here saving his ass I'm sure you understand how I _will_ do whatever it takes to get him back."

The hunter whimpered as he squeezed his hand tighter. Stiles grinned again suddenly, the transition terrifying enough in its own right.

"So. Last chance here, _hunter_. Tell me where he is."

The hunter shakes her head again, fear fighting her irrational loyalty. She obviously had no sense of self-preservation. She was one of those hunters who lived only for the destruction of the creatures she fought.

Stiles shoved his free hand into her stomach with a burn of flames, and she screamed in agony. She doubled over, or tried to, anyway, but remained held up by his hand on her throat.

He watched her dispassionately, feeling the flickering fire as it sprang into life _inside_ her. It licked the nerve-endings in her insides, roiled along the stretched tautness of her skin, boiled the blood in her veins. Tears poured down her cheeks and Stiles ended the magic.

"Feel like telling me now?" He asked carelessly, as if he had no preference one way or another.

The hunter gasped for breath under his magic, and _there_ was the undeniable fear and distinct defiance, but Stiles knew what people looked like when they reached the end of their rope, and the hunter just had.

"He's still in Beacon Hills. They're shipping him out tonight. There's a- a file, on the desk, has the location, he's guarded, and I..just- he's going to die, you all are going to die like the monsters you are."

"'Monsters' is a relative term."

Stiles grit his teeth and snapped her neck. She died as he'd promised, quickly and painlessly, with only the briefest expression of surprise on her face.

Stiles looked at her lifeless body distastefully. He had long since gotten used to death, but he never really found pleasure in it. The fight, sure, protecting those he needed to protect, completely, but death? It was hard to be fond of something he was so utterly and disastrously familiar with.

Stiles ignored her corpse and walked over to the desk, lifting the paper she had mentioned. Stuffing it in his pocket, he strolled carefully over to the chair in the corner of the room and slid his loose shirt off his shoulders.

Moving the chair with a grimace at being exposed to the stifling levels of evil he was receiving, Stiles dropped the fabric down on the metal, breathing a weary sigh of relief when it managed to restrict, or at least kind of supress, the cruel tendrils.

He cautiously bent down and lifted up the shirt, being completely careful not to let any speck of skin touch any of the metal, but still feeling the rush of it through the his shirt.

He frowned as he looked around, secured his hold tighter on the fabric that held the weapon that could kill him, and vanished.

All that was left were a bunch of unconscious hunters and a residual sense of wrongness in the air.

...

"Derek." Peter's voice was soft but with an edge of hard steel, drawing Derek back to reality with a harsh yank.

"Peter." He acknowledged the other wolf's presence with a small tilt of his head, not rude enough to be taken as an insult but in no way submissive.

Derek was an Alpha, anyway. Tilting his head was more than enough for his dead-not-dead crazy psychotic uncle.

Peter sighed wearily and sat down beside him heavily, shoulders loose and pliant, arms taking his weight as he let his head fall back.

Derek dared a glance at him through the corner of his eye. Even in his peripheral, Peter looked... good. Better. Healthy. _Alive_.

It was a nice change, Derek could admit, from the smoking burnt to a crisp corpse or the insane power-hungry Alpha. Those particular aspects of his only living blood relative's personality were ones he was in no rush to see again.

Peter sighed at him disparagingly. "What? No comments? No cursing my name or baring your fangs? That's not the nephew I know."

Derek grit his teeth. "Maybe I'm not him." He said, instead of staying silent, knowing that in his present mood his deranged uncle would just continue pestering him until he got an answer.

Silence raged for a few long moments, a few eternal beats of his heart. Derek tapped his fingers lightly on the ground, uncomfortable with the uncharacteristic _stillness_. Peter broke the tense atmosphere first, voice collected and dry, drawling slightly.

"You're an idiot." He said, and it said something for Derek's life that it wasn't the first time he'd heard that, even that day.

Derek remained silent, staring resolutely ahead even as he felt Peter's insanely _knowing_ eyes on him.

"Aren't you even going to ask why?" Peter raised one eyebrow at him mockingly, and Derek lifted his shoulders higher to his neck.

"I'll tell you then, shall I?" It wasn't a question, and Derek knew that without needing to ask. His left hand tensed on his thigh, but no sounds escaped his lips.

"Let me start by telling you what if felt like. Dying. And not the dying I did when you slit my throat, no, but how it felt when I spent six years in a self-inflicted healing coma because my wife and kids had been brutally murdered." His tone was amiable, pleasant, and his body-language and posture remained relaxed.

"You can imagine that would drive a person to the very edge of rationality, and I can easily admit that I wasn't in my... best of mind-sets when I was healed. Turning the _boy_ was, admittedly, an unintelligent move on my part. It was instinctual, automatic. I don't regret it, per se, as it led to where I am today, but there were better choices than Scott. However, it did lead Stiles into the supernatural world, and that is something I cannot help but feel inordinately proud of."

Derek lifted his lips into a snarl, barely restrained. "Why are you telling me this?" He blurt out angrily.

Peter showed no sign of acknowledgement that he was bating an angry wolf, instead just leaning back nonchalantly and gazing at the rapidly gathering clouds in the dark sky.

"Because I want you to know _exactly_ how stupid you were. I mean, I bit a sixteen-year old with asthma and a penchant to look more like a puppy than a predator, with a frankly terrifying best friend, who, I'll have you know, rejected the bite when I offered it to him, and who somehow managed to get himself tangled in with hunters."

Derek felt like he couldn't breathe. "You- you offered- Stiles- what?"

Peter rolled his eyes. "Sentences, Derek. Try and form them, please. It'll make it easier for people to understand you."

Derek just swallowed audibly and fixed his uncle with a look.

Peter rolled his eyes again. "Yes, I offered Stiles the bite. He refused it. End of story."

"Why didn't you just force the bite on him like you did with Scott?" Derek asked finally.

Peter tilted his head thoughtfully, gazing into space with a secret grin pulling the corner of lips up.

"Good question. That was probably the only smart thing I did all year. You see, Stiles would've made a brilliant wolf. Still would, in fact. He would've been everything Scott isn't; ruthless, cunning and reckless to the point of stupidity. He would've fought tooth and claw with every last drop of energy he had, and even then he would've found more."

Derek couldn't find it within himself to argue, because he knew it was true. Knew it even as he knew his eyes were red.

"But. Stiles isn't submissive. He, and he alone, trusts himself to take care of those who mean anything to him. Stiles would've joined me for as long as necessary and then stabbed me in the back, _grinning_. He would've researched and learned until he knew more about being a werewolf than I did, and then he would've used that against me. Human Stiles is formidable, but werewolf Stiles? I don't even want to think about that."

Derek opened his mouth to say something, maybe in Stiles' defence, but closed it again. He couldn't honestly deny anything Peter had said.

Peter smiled at him once, seeming to read his thoughts. "I never said that was a bad thing. But even in the condition I was in, I could feel a sense of _more_ about Stiles, and, human or no, Stiles was prepared to kill me to protect his own. It was an admirable trait, but I wasn't about to accept, let alone create, a danger in my own inner circle. Stiles is infinitely more wolfish than Scott while human, I wasn't about to add to his danger-levels."

Derek furrowed his brow and looked at his uncle strangely. _And look how well that turned out,_ he thought, _Stiles is now the most powerful being alive or in recent history_.

"So I wasn't about to bite Stiles. Yes, Stiles is powerful now, but he is also stronger, braver and harder than he was at sixteen. These years have been cruel to him, and it's changed him into someone unrecognisable from the boy he used to be. I have had a small part in this, but I'm not nearly arrogant enough to claim all the credit. I might have set the ball rolling, but everything after has been him and you- your pack. But to get at the heart of the matter, your stupid actions."

Derek bit back a growl and Peter shook his head.

"I don't know what it was that encouraged you to do what you did, and in some way I can't help but be grateful because if you hadn't I never would have gotten a chance to re-meet Stiles, but damn, Derek, for someone supposed to be intelligent you really don't know Stiles if you think saying goodbye will keep him _safe_."

Derek started at his uncle's perceptiveness as he says 'safe' like a dirty word, not something to be desired but rather endured.

"Stiles _craves_ power. But not for himself, not for control or desire to be better than everyone else. Stiles craves power because he sees that as the only way to keep those precious to him safe, and he will do anything to do that. Stiles would die for his loved ones, and you," Peter fixed him with a glare, "You complete and utter fool, you gave him an excuse to get out of Beacon Hills and _become_ unbeatable. You cut off his ties to humanity, to the very people he would do the impossible _for_. Do you have any idea what a mage like Stiles can _do_?! No, of course you don't, because you're an idiot. Stiles is a whole new level of powerful, and you gave him the opportunity and the reason to become _more_ powerful. You literally handed the world to him on a silver platter and if it weren't for his twisted sense of morality that usually leans towards grey and his _undying_ loyalty to specific people, even if he doesn't particularly _like_ them very much, Stiles would have become the very being that he fights. So that is why you're an idiot, Derek. Stiles was never the pack's anchor, holding you all to your humanity."

Peter stood up and brushed the imaginary dirt from his clothes, hands sweeping gently over the loose fabric. He took one step away, back towards Stiles' house, and then another, before turning back around.

"The pack was his."

...

"They're back!"

Isaac was running down the path towards him, and was quickly followed by an outpour of bodies, squirming and pushing to get a view.

Derek shot upright, hands scrambling in the dirt.

Stiles was standing in the centre of the path, a bleary-eyed weak Scott leaning on him with an arm thrown over the taller teen's shoulder. Scott was standing, barely, his head lolling forward and being pulled down by gravity and lack of strength.

Stiles lifted Scott's arm from his shoulder carefully, passing him off to a waiting Isaac, who was quickly assisted by Allison, who darted forward to help hold her boyfriend.

Boyd- still slightly weary and out of it from his own misendeavours- limped forward to steady Stiles by the arm, but paused just shy of touching him.

Stiles shook his head once, quickly as if to remove cobwebs, and walked forward, not giving an inch.

Boyd shifted uncomfortably before following him and the trio into the house. Lydia rushed forward and gripped Stiles by the arm, and Derek saw Stiles smile at her gratefully.

They began whispering, seemingly nonsensical, but obviously meaning something to them.

"There's a-" Stiles shot a glance to the wolves behind before suddenly wincing. His hand shot to his chest, and Derek wasn't the only one who stepped forward unconsciously.

Stiles jerked a head in negative, before clenching his fists and consciously unknotting the tension in his shoulders.

Lydia grasped his chin with the fingers of her right hand and twisted his face until his eyes met hers steadily.

Stiles let his head fall minutely as a yes and Lydia took a deep breath. "Okay. Okay." She murmured, looking at Stiles with something akin to empathy and worry in the glint of her eyes.

"I hid _it_ somewhere it won't be found. No chance of it getting into the wrong hands." Stiles smiled weakly, his tone trying (and failing) for levity.

"How did it get past the shields?" Lydia hissed, and Stiles just shook his head.

"Luck." He told her, but Derek, and no doubt the rest of the wolves, heard the skip in his heartbeat.

"Lyds, I'm infallible, remember? Can't get hurt by anything any person can throw at me."

Was Derek imagining it or was there a slight infliction on the word 'person' when Stiles spoke?

Lydia seemed to catch it too, because she leaned in closer to him and huffed, "You and I both now there are other creatures that can't be considered 'people' out there. And I'm not talking about werewolves."

Stiles grinned at her impishly before squeezing her hand gently as reassurance.

"I'm fine, Lyds. Nothing I haven't handled before."

Stiles turned and walked into the house casually, hands tucked into his pockets as if to hide his still tight fists.

Lydia stared after him, eyes wide and anxious. "That's what I'm worried about," She murmured, and Derek couldn't help but agree.

Even if only in his own head.

The pack walked, or in some cases, limped after Stiles, and Derek found himself at the tail-end of the group, everyone else using quick steps to reassure themselves their pack mate was okay. And that Stiles was okay too, inevitably.

They traipsed into the sitting room, where Derek's senses were assaulted with the stagnant smells of alcohol and junk food, causing him to wrinkle his nose up.

The others seemed unperturbed by the intense scent, instead grabbing seats as if it had all been pre-decided. Maybe it had. They had spent the night after all.

Derek and Stiles were the only two who remained standing, even Scott accepting the support of the furniture with barely a whisper of complaint.

Derek felt.. _uneasy_ in Stiles' space. Stiles' territory. For all intents and purposes, Stiles was a rival Alpha, what with all the hold he had in Derek's own pack, and wasn't _that_ an astonishing discovery in itself.

Derek's wolf complained about being in another Alpha's space, but not in the way it _should_ have. It wanted (God help him) to be _invited_ to share Stiles' space, wanted formal acknowledgement that he was _allowed_ and _accepted_.

Derek shook such thoughts from his head, and instead settled himself with watching every tiny shift in Stiles' posture for future reference and understanding.

Stiles paced the length of the living room with frantic desperate jolts of movement, long legs eating up the ground and head somewhere they couldn't hope to reach. Lydia stayed sitting, but when he passed her again she reached out one careful hand and grasped his wrist.

"Stiles." She stated, and that seemed to be enough to shake Stiles from his self-imposed reverie.

"Right. Well, there's no easy way to say this, I guess."

He spun around on his heel suddenly, clasping his hands together at stomach-level, pressing them into his stomach as if seeking an anchor.

Derek recalled Peter's parting words, and couldn't help but think that he was right. A quick glance over at his uncle revealed the wolf staring at Stiles with a worry matched only by Lydia.

Stiles braced himself and swallowed quietly before he ceased moving. "Beacon Hills is being targeted by an evil force."

Jackson sprang up with, "It wouldn't be the first time."

Derek almost growled at him because it was _not_ the time to be facetious, but Stiles laughed tensely as if he appreciated the effort.

The light-hearted move was gone seconds after, though the tenseness between the people present had lessened somewhat.

"You haven't dealt with anything like this." Stiles told them finally, face grave.

"He's..." Stiles waved a hand in the air as if trying to find a concept he couldn't quite put his fingers on.

Laughing at himself self-depreciatingly, Stiles shrugged.

"Well, he's a demon."

It would have been funny if Stiles was joking. Except he _really_ wasn't.

Stupid Beacon Hills. Sometimes Derek seriously thought about moving away.

Maybe somewhere sunny. Where he wasn't fighting for his life every second day. Somewhere he could get a job, and a tan, thought the two were not mutually inclusive.

Where he could just _be_ for the first time since the fire.

Derek would be lying he said he didn't want it.

He'd also be lying if he said that that didn't sound boring as all fuck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, okay;  
> Stiles causes great bodily harm to some hunters (again!), and describes in detail how one of them would be killed before snapping her neck, so _warning_.  
>  Peter talks of insanity and unstableness, and why exactly he didn't bite Stiles that time in season 1 when we all knew he _should've_ because Stiles would be a downright _brilliant_ , if terrifying, wolf. Just saying. That's my headcanon reason anyway, as you can see!  
> The usual; death, gore, violence, evil etc etc.  
> An evil weapon that can push through Stiles' defensive shields (surprise!).
> 
> So if I've missed anything tell me, and sorry for the wait!
> 
> As always, to my brilliant, amazing readers, THANK YOU! Recently found a new OTP (Kirk/Spock if you're wondering, so couldn't resist the impulse to stick a little of that in, for those who noticed, sorry, no harm meant!) which brings the grand total of slash OTP's that break my heart up to 6 (maybe seven).
> 
> For everybody who follows the story, kudos'd or might kudos in the future, who sends amazing comments that cheer me up after a shit day, or bookmarks or spreads the words or reads, I hope you like this chapter and live long, happy, incredibly lives and get all you've ever wanted, and here, have a hug!
> 
> *Hugs excitedly*
> 
> So thank you for that, and next chapter the pack find out what's coming and Stiles goes and visits Deaton with the weapon-of-mass-destruction-forged-from-evil.
> 
> So that's that, talk to you soon, and love you guys millions!
> 
> H.S.F


	12. Why is it always me? I mean, I try to be a good person. I eat all my vegetables, I say please and thank you, well, most of the time anyway, I try not to kill anybody that doesn’t deserve it. I mean, I don’t always succeed, but we all have flaws!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles gets snarky, the bullet's still in his chest, and then Derek and Stiles have their first non-argument. It-s fun and frolic all around.

"A _demon_?" Scott asked, voice heavy with disbelief. He sat propped up on either side by Allison and Isaac, eyes red-rimmed and sore looking, arms folded in the universal sign of distaste and discomfort.

Derek's wolf growled at the mistreatment of his pack, his beta, at the hands of _humans_ , and not just any humans but at the hands of _hunters_ , who had already cost him so much. If he found those hunters he was going to rip their throats out. That was if his pack, judging by the murderous expressions of their faces, didn't get to them first. Not to mention Stiles. Who smelled faintly of dried blood and hours old anger. Which did _not_ make Derek's inner wolf yap in happiness that his- _Stiles_ was willing to protect their- _his_ pack. At all.

Stiles had been rather vague about what exactly he had done to get Scott back with them, waving a hand in the air as if the request was nonsensical and unimportant, when nothing could be further from the truth. Stiles' nonchalant attitude towards his own abilities and achievements were starting to get on Derek's nerves. You know, if he had any right to be annoyed. Which he didn't. At all. The sooner his wolf figured it out the better.

"Yes, Scott a Demon. Eternal damnation in hell, fire and brimstone, horns and bat wings, do I need to paint you a picture or do you get the idea?" Stiles practically growled, all lingering patience long since dissipated.

He continued pacing, back and forth, back and forth, carpet fibres giving way beneath his too-light steps, anxiety lending itself to the almost dead silence of his movements. He was.. walking wasn't the right word, too tame, too _human_. Stiles was _prowling_ , and it made Derek's wolf want to respond in kind.

Stiles sighed for a second and rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands. "Demons are pure evil, dangerously good at pretending not to be, complete bastards when it comes to revenge and notoriously hard to kill. I've managed to piss off quite a few in my limited years on this earth, but none quite so much as the one out to get me at this moment in time." His admission was mentioned without a hint of smugness, and more than Stiles' fair share of self-depreciation.

Lydia's jaw was clenched as she watched Stiles' hands form into fists, and it occurred to Derek, belatedly, that maybe there was more to the story than Stiles was telling. But then again, it wasn't like Stiles would ever _tell_ them anyways. And Derek was 100% not bitter about that. Not even the tiniest trace of bitterness. Scott seemed to reach this conclusion at the same time as he did, and was the first one who dared to ask.

"What did you do?" The room was hushed and deadly quiet, everyone waiting with a shoddily hidden eagerness for Stiles' answer.

He raised his eyes upwards, brow furrowed, before seeming to catch on. He turned away and let his hand reach out to stroke the peeling painted wall with two elegant fingers, the slightest sound of his fingertips catching the only thing to hear.

Stiles laughed humourlessly to himself, lips pursed stiffly, eyes tight with unspoken emotion.

"What did I do?" He repeated absentmindedly, almost too low to be heard by anyone in the room, a sick sort of manic glee rising in his iris', the tiniest smidge of a smirk gracing the corner of his mouth.

Stiles spun on his heels to face them once more, a fake cocky smile twisting his lips unnaturally, eyes gleaming just lightly golden, as if someone had dropped a glitter haze under his lids for the sole purpose of making him look eerie and other-worldly, almost _fae_.

"Why, I killed him of course."

Utter silence.

"You... killed...him?" Scott sounded shocked, sounded so horribly _surprised_ that Derek wanted to slap the young Beta across the back of the head.

Stiles snarled at him again. "Yes, Scott, because that _is_ what you tend to do to someone when they want to wipe humanity off the face of the earth and clear a path for hell spawn to end all life. Didn't you get the memo?"

Scott looked suitably chastised before countering a moment later.

"Why, though?"

Stiles trapped his tongue between his teeth and dragged his fingers through his hair, pulling the long strands up taunt vertically from his scalp, a punishingly tight fist wrapped around the thick hairs.

He lifted the corners of his lips in a crappy imitation of a smile, eyes shining dangerously bright.

"Scott." His voice was carefully controlled, deliberate, precise and articulate as he spoke, looking for all the world as if he was about to either offer a cup of tea or turn feral. "Are you seriously asking me why I would kill a power-hungry, egomaniacal, sadistic, psychopathic, brutal, cruel, dangerous, homicidal, murderous and frankly ass-hole of a demon, and if so, _what the fuck Scott_?"

Scott flushed a deep scarlet that looked peculiar on his someone of his build and complexion, but stubbornly held his point.

"No, what I meant was why would he come after you again if you've already proven yourself stronger than him before?"

Stiles stopped his pacing to turn to his old friend, considering, his head cocked to one side and brows furrowed. "I guess you did." He murmured, more to himself than anyone else, sounding almost... pleased? Was that the word Derek was looking for?

It didn't last long however, and Stiles soon returned to his pacing with vigour and quick steps, clasped hands lifted to his mouth and pressed against his lips.

He hummed lightly, air musical under the vibrations, fingers firmly linked and entwined.

Stiles huffed out a breath that could have been a laugh, were he anybody else and the situation any different, and his jaw was hard and tense.

"I don't know, Scott. People, and, strangely enough, even demons tend to get a little defensive and upset when you _kill_ them. I suppose you could call it the fatal flaw of life."

Stiles clenched his right fist suddenly and turned away. Derek caught only the quickest shut of his eyes in pain, his left hand rising to his temples as if to ward away a headache.

"Now, if you excuse me, I do have things to do so we don't all _die_."

Stiles practically _ran_ from the room, body stiff and expression suddenly grim. The pack looked at each other in confusion. What was _that_ about?

...

Stiles collapsed back against the door of the bathroom with a dull thud, hands crushed into fists pressed tightly into his burning side to stop himself from screaming. He vaguely recalled clicking the lock into place with his magic the second he entered, hands moving in the air of their own accord and the words forming swiftly and silently on his tongue, heavy like lead and stones.

He rammed his skull back hard against the smooth pale wood of the door and clammed his mouth shut with jaws clenched tight to prevent any noises escaping, even the barest whisper of sound.

Gods, it _burned_.

With stiff, fumbling fingers Stiles cursed and yanked his overly starched shirt from his over-heated skin, pulled it over his shoulders in haste and hissing as the actions caused splashes of nerve-filled heat to wash up and down his spine, and shot it quickly in a random direction.

And he knew he had aroused suspicion, knew he shouldn't have ran out of that room like the hounds of hell were on his tail, should have walked calmly or _something_.

But _he was on **fire**_.

Stiles clasped shaky hands behind his head, dug his nails into the hard flesh of his knuckles and felt the first few watery drops of blood slip down his wrist. His vision blacked out as his forearm strained with the pain, the bathroom and its white tiles swimming before his eyes.

Against his will Stiles groaned, and the sound echoed around the room before he could catch it once more between his teeth.

Bracing himself, Stiles glanced down at his chest and his injury that was burning him from the inside out. "Oh, fuck." He breathed, and if it sounded almost like a hysterical laugh he could be excused

The wound from earlier was bleeding again, a small rivulet of dark scarlet blood trailing a path down past the waistband of his jeans and across his lower stomach, staining his sweat-soaked skin almost pink. That wasn't what worried him, though.

Stiles had dealt with more than his fair share of blood (because when was life, especially his, ever truly _fair_ ) and even seeing his own barely even fazed him. No, what was far, far more worrying were the long, seeking grey tendrils that were steadily forging a slow path up his chest and towards his heart.

 _The damn bullet was cursed_.

Well shit.

Stiles let out a string of profanity under his breath, impressive enough to scar children everywhere, before releasing a long exhale.

"Fucking demons and their fucking egos and goddamn fucking werewolves that can't just accept _things_ as bloody truth without conclusive proof that 'oh yes, of course Stiles will just happen to have lying around, you know how he likes doing that, oh wait, you _don't_ because you haven't spoken to him in over a fucking year' and mother-fucking people who won't leave me alone, because it's not like I have a fucking hole in my goddamn side or anything!" Stiles blurted viciously, still staring down at the sickly grey roots under his skin.

But cursing out everyone else in the entire world just as some sort of delay tactic would not heal him, and, left to its own devices, the wound and the bullet still festering inside his side would kill him, which wasn't exactly how he was hoping to go out.

Stiles' shoulders tensed just at the thought, but something had to be done.

Making a snap decision, he slapped his hand to the wall and switched the shower on, giving plausible credence to his locking of himself in the bathroom as well as both hushing his sounds from listening ears and keeping his temperature down.

Stiles left his jeans on and tried to psyche himself up enough to move, to push himself into the shower, knowing it would hurt like nothing else but just as aware that he didn't really have any other option.

Pain sucked.

Stiles shoved himself off of the door and across the short distance to the shower, every vein in his body protesting, every nerve rebelling. He couldn't think, couldn't see, couldn't _breathe_ with the pain, so much _pain_.

Gasping, he let his head fall back against the smooth, cool tiles of the shower wall, and grit his teeth at the sudden influx of debilitating agony that the action caused him. Through the heavy pounding of his heart in his ears, that constant beating thrum against his ear drums, Stiles heard a muffled knock on the door and a whispered question.

"Stiles?" And when lifting his head to investigate and even reply forced a groan from the back of his throat, Stiles was happy he'd had the foresight to turn on the shower so that the noise from the water would cover any and all involuntary noises he couldn't control.

No point in starting a siege of bodies beating down the door.

The water practically sizzled as it came into contact with his heated skin, and Stiles somehow managed to turn himself around without slipping into the increasingly tempting blank of unconsciousness. But if he did slip away, if he let the darkness cover his vision and his mind fall away, he was almost completely certain he would never wake up again.

Stiles glanced down at his chest again, where the twisting grey lines were slowly but surely carving their significant way up his skin, at least half a centimetre further up his bloodstream than they had been mere minutes before.

 _Think!_ He muttered harshly to himself.

Wracking his brain furiously (or as furiously as he was able, considering the situation and pain he was under) Stiles froze when the thought _finally_ occurred to him. He couldn't heal himself using magic with the bullet still inside his body (insidiously infectious, poisoning his very blood, his organs, his brain), but maybe if he were able to take it out...?

Holding his breath (at least figuratively, on the outside and in reality his shoulders were heaving with strain and exertion, deep panting breaths that almost gave him less air than short frantic ones), Stiles shifted until his hands sat clasped over the wound.

He murmured a few soft, gently spoken words, and a faint gold glow entered the gaping hole underneath his ribcage and seemed to make him glow from the inside out; like when he was younger and innocent and used to hold torches to the tips of his fingers and watch the light shine through. Before everything that made him bitter and tense. Before, well, before life.

The gold light travelled into his chest and then stopped. Suddenly, a burst of liquid ice ran through his veins and Stiles arched from the wall and bit his lip until he tasted the iron tang of blood, everything in him objecting to the magic, as if barbed wires of acid were stuck straight through his skin, bones filled with metallic burning smoke. His legs buckled beneath him and he slid down the wall, shoulders so tense he felt as if he could have broken straight through the wall with the smallest amount of pressure.

Stiles hastily yanked his magic back out of his body, and the ensuing, overwhelming relief from that terrible devastating freeze made him release a half sob half laugh, and every tiny movement of his body lit his nerve endings on fire.

"Okay... okay, fuck, fuck, okay, no magic, good to know, fuck... okay." The words jumbled and twisted as they fell from his cracked and bloody lips, barely audible beneath the constant swirling mass and rush of water that sluiced over his head and down his bare shoulders, the fabric of his jeans growing uncomfortably tight and water-logged, sticking to his legs like a second skin.

Stiles forced deep, long breaths in and out of his lungs and ignored the light thumping on the door signalling the impatience of whatever wolf had come to investigate.

There was no other option, no alternative. He didn't have a choice.

Gods, but this was going to _hurt_.

Stiles lifted one shaking fist up to his mouth and bit down heavily on his forefinger, small crescents of pink raised skin on his knuckles from his nails long since washed clean of blood. With his right hand, he gently probed the tips of the damage on his stomach, and bit down harder on his finger when the touch made him want to scream out loud.

Shoving his knuckle further into his mouth, and clenching his teeth harder on the skin, Stiles bit the sinew hard enough to indent and felt his shoulders tense impossibly, illogically further.

If he didn't stop the curse making its way to his heart, screw the demon he was going to die right there right then, half naked and bleeding in a frigid shower stall.

Thanks to the complete fail of his magic, he did have a _very_ rough idea of where the bullet was currently staining his innards, and since magic wouldn't work and he didn't have the time, patience or energy to wait and somehow find his way to the hospital all those miles away...

Yeah, there really was no other option.

The water overhead flattened his hair straight down his forehead, weighing his eyelashes down and pouring past the crevice of his ears.

He was shaking, he realised idly somewhere in the back of his head, abs contracting and releasing habitually with every breath, pushing more blood out and down his skin and outlining his hipbone, darkening the waistband of his jeans crimson.

The water whirling down the drain was tinged pink, and the grey tendrils were lining his ribs already.

The contrast between the pitch black inky tattoos decorating and practically dancing across his neck, chest and shoulders, and the sickly grey pallor of the cursed bullet's infection were enough to make his mind up for him.

Fist still blocking the groans, whimpers and pain-filled exclamations that _begged_ to escape and slip from his lips, Stiles didn't wait a second before carefully plunging his fingers into his side.

He might have blacked out after that, might have shut his eyes and lost feeling in his limbs, could possibly have collapsed backward and let his loose, pliant body empty of consciousness.

When he came to a few seconds later, vision bleary and unfocused, the hammering on the door had reached a new height, with various overlapping voices of all timbres and meanings calling his name in rushed, frantic emotion.

His fist had fallen with the bloody teeth-marks to the floor by his side, but his right hand was still partway in his stomach, almost cradling his wound with cupped fingers, deep under his skin. Heh, under his skin. Gods, he was delirious.

Stiles pressed his head against the cool glass of the shower, shoved his legs tight against the opposite wall (and when had he slipped to the floor? When, exactly, had his legs stopped holding his weight, because the last while had been too much of a blur to make out) and pressed his fingers even deeper.

The pain was over-powering, over-whelming, blocking all of his senses and making his heart thud erratically, almost worryingly, in his chest.

Eyes closed against the steady and constant drops of water, Stiles forced his fingers to keep moving, to not stop because of a little thing like unending, torturous _pain_.

Pain was useful, pain could be controlled, harnessed; pain was a force of strength and a depth of energy all on its own.

But this was something different. Something _more_.

Every breath, every tiny flex or stretch of muscles _hurt_ , but Stiles (stubborn asshole that he was) just grit his teeth harder and continued to dig inside his body for the bullet.

When his finger-tips began to burn, fiery crescendos in a burning wasteland, Stiles (had he been a praying or even faintly religious man) would have thanked whatever the hell deity watched over damaged mages who found demons and used to run with wolves.

Then his fractured and fragile nerves met with the one spot of complete ice in his body, and his only thought was, _Bingo_.

Devastatingly, eternally slowly, Stiles ignored and dismissed the pain as best he could, to the extent of his abilities, and trapped the bullet between two jerky fingers, and just as agonisingly slowly began to tug it out.

One false move, one slip up, one mistake and Stiles wouldn't have the time left to live to try and remove it again.

Finally, after what felt like eons of small shifting movements and jaggedly harsh breaths, Stiles slipped the bullet from the folds of his skin and threw it as far away from himself as physically possible, the sheer strength of his eagerness to be rid of the thing not even minutely hidden.

Collapsing forward to the floor of the shower, arms and muscles twitching and giving way beneath him, Stiles let out a shaky laugh that was at least half a sob, hand coming up and vertically to prevent his own face smashing into the slippery, wet plastic shower bottom.

He rested his free hand against the tiled wall and hiccupped another pained laugh, barely believing his own luck.

"Talk about leaving it to the last minute." Stiles murmured blearily, and felt his shoulder dip, relaxed for the first time since entering the bathroom. His hand was covered in blood, pools of it, and he still had to heal his side before he bled to death on the floor of the shower.

Which would have been almost hilariously ironic, pulling the bullet out through the pain only to bleed out as if it were a common injury and he an ordinary person, but Stiles was not, and never would be, a big advocate of dying for the sake of comedic value or poetic irony.

Pulling his tired and unresponsive body from where he was sprawled against the floor to his feet proved to be an exhausting and herculean task, but Stiles managed it eventually, leaning heavily against the square tiles and feeling the heavy droplets of cold water splash down his neck and back, mixing with sweat and blood.

The heavy pounding on the door matched the consistent beating of his heart, and, had he any energy to be wasted or squandered at all, Stiles would have rolled his eyes.

Lifting his hand to cover his bloody side once more, Stiles pulled his eyebrows together and grasped the two sides of his wound together, forcing bright white _pure_ magic to tunnel down his arm and into his stomach.

The entry would closed over, fresh pink skin forming and torn muscles grafting together to fill in for the missing matter.

It was a languorous and laborious process, and his vision was mostly black spots and dancing white lights for most of it, but finally it was completed and he was no longer on the verge of death. At least for one more day.

Stiles reached out one shaky hand and turned off the shower, leaning back heavily against the wall when the act of moving seemed to drain all the energy he possessed. Shakily, Stiles almost fell out of the cubicle, using the walls as leverage when his legs threatened to give way beneath him.

The banging on the door never ceased his entire journey, and eventually when his patience gave out Stiles yelled back through gritted teeth and false aggravation (he was too tired to feel any _real_ sense of annoyance).

"I'm fine, jeez! Just taking a bloody shower, or is that forbidden with you oh mighty wolves?"

His sarcasm seemed to reassure them, ironically enough, and they moved from the door, grumbling indiscernibly.

Stiles ran his fingers through his damp hair and winced when it caused his muscles to twinge.

He glanced in the mirror warily, noting the patchwork scars and curved tattoos, the beading water droplets and defined muscles honed from over two years of fighting the unbeatable.

His deep hazel-gold eyes spoke of too many trials faced, too much death and misery and pain, and Stiles turned away, unwilling to face his own image any longer.

Growing up hurt.

Quickly materialising a shirt and jumper, Stiles took a deep breath in, tried to tap into any lingering reserves of previously unused energy he possessed, and flung open the door to face the wolves.

...

Derek started to his feet when the bathroom door was abruptly pulled open from the inside, his undignified scrambling thankfully hidden by the fact that everyone else was doing the same. Excluding Lydia, who stepped gracefully to her feet but was the first to Stiles' side. Somehow. Derek suspected magic was involved.

Stiles snorted at seeing them all and rolled his eyes, but to Derek the act seemed painfully forced and almost as if Stiles was behaving like they expected him to just to stop them asking why the hell they had heard his pain-filled groan that tore the very fabric of Derek's being not even moments before.

He was _not_ going to get away that easily.

"What happened?" Isaac beat him to the punch, and Scott looked momentarily put out that he hadn't been the one to bring it up before his concern overcame his trepidation.

Stiles smirked evenly at them, and Derek noticed the wet waistband of his jeans, the faint lingering scent of blood, and the almost unnoticeable tremor in Stiles' hands.

"Mage business." He responded dryly, before reaching suddenly for something in his pocket and pulling out a single cigarette, lighting it with a flame from the tips of his fingers.

Stiles lifted it to his lips (hands still shaking, Derek noticed with concern) and drew in one long breath.

"When did you start smoking?" Scott said accusatorily, and Stiles blinked at him for a long moment. Derek wanted to bang his head against the wall at the beta's stupidity.

"Probably around the same time I stopped giving a damn what people think of me, which, was, hmmm... a month after I left here? That would make it over a year after risking my life became commonplace, and this way I figure if supernatural shit doesn't kill me at least lung cancer will. Thank heavens for small mercies, eh?"

Stiles shrugged off Lydia's placating arm on his elbow and stalked off to the porch, shooting one last lingering dirty look at them all. Lydia growled low in the back of her throat. "Idiot." She snarled at Scott, who watched, nonplussed, and Lydia turned to go back upstairs.

"Aren't you going to go after him?" Screw banging his head against the wall, Derek wanted to bang his head against a fucking _cliff_.

Lydia rolled her eyes. "Yes, Scott, because Stiles is a naughty toddler who is going off in a huff. No I bloody well am not going after him! In this mood, he is _not_ in the mood for company, and I'm not going to impose and _force_ my company on him. Stiles is an adult. He doesn't need me trying to hold his hand. You might want to ;earn from that."

Slowly the pack dispersed back to their rooms, and, bracing himself, Derek stepped outside to stand beside the mage, forearms resting on the smooth wood of the railing.

Stiles didn't glance over at him. They stood like that, in silence, for a while.

Finally, Stiles broke it. "You coming out to criticise my life and health choices too?"

Derek almost jumped. In the peace and quiet, he's nearly forgotten words were a thing people did at all.

Deliberately stalling over his words, Derek didn't turn to look at the man beside him, instead gazing out into the surrounding forest.

"Nah." He said finally. "It would be a bit hypocritical of me. I'm not exactly the poster-boy for positive coping mechanisms."

Stiles snorted back a laugh. "Understatement." He agreed under his breath, and Derek held back a smile.

Stiles glanced at him from the corner of his eye. "This is the first time since I've come back that we've been alone." He told Derek, who nodded. It was nice. More relaxed than he'd expected it to be. Than it had any right to be.

"And the first time we've been in each others' company where we haven't argued, disagreed, scarred or otherwise caused tension since pretty much the first time we met." Stiles continued, and Derek didn't try to hold back his smile that time.

"I'm feeling a bit of tension." He teased, just to see if they were there yet, if they could tease each other without it ending in figurative and occasionally literal violence.

Stiles huffed, but his mouth curled up in a smile and they sank back into the comfort of not speaking with all the ease of friends. Even though they were both fully aware that they weren't. Not truly.

There were a few more seconds of relaxed silence, before, "S'not real, you know."

Derek furrowed his eyebrows and risked a glance at the mage beside him, who's cigarette was hanging limply between his lips. His eyes looked a million miles away, and made Derek want to draw him back, to pull him home.

"What?" He asked instead, because contrary to popular belief he did not have a death wish.

Stiles slipped the item in question between two fingers, which Derek was pleased to see no longer shook, and then flicked it into nonexistence.

"The cigarette." He explained unnecessarily. "Never existed. Not really. Created of magic, and so has to return to magic. Most important rule of the old ways. Everything that is done has to be undone. All actions have an equal and opposite reaction. Everything has an end, eventually."

"Isaac Newton." Derek noted, and Stiles nodded.

"Nothing lasts forever." He said softly, and it felt to Derek almost like a confession.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God, it's late and I'm wrecked and a little bit out of my mind but finally posted this chapter!
> 
> So sorry 'bout the delay, no excuses, just been insanely hectic with essays and projects and homework and birthdays and _things_.
> 
> Ugh, anyways.
> 
> Thank you so much to all of you guys (and girls, and non-binary peoples, and both, neither, other, aliens, I might be just a little bit crazy, my apologies in advance). Support has been massive for this, and I never expected it to go so well, so thank you all!!!
> 
> A huge, ginormous thanks to all who subscribed, kudos'd, commented, bookmarked, read and spread the word!
> 
> As always, _not_ beta'd, so all mistakes are my own. And, no, unfortunately I don't own Teen Wolf or Tyler Hoechlin would never have left and Stiles would be even more of a Bamf and have long hair and and... And I'm going to stop before this becomes more of a tirade than a note!
> 
> Warnings for;  
> Snark  
> Sarcasm (c'mon, this is a Stiles-fic, what did you expect?)  
> Demon bashing  
> Talk of killing  
> Stiles sticks his hand inside his own body (Gross, I know, but necessary)  
> Magic, evil bullets  
> Cursing, pretty heavy (see two above)  
> Stiles smokes (but not really, read it and find out)  
> Blood and gore  
> Graphic descriptions of... I don't know... doctoring...? Sorta?
> 
> And that's all folks!  
> So drop a comment, tell me what you think, tell your friends (shameless self advertising), etc etc and updates as soon as I can get my shit in gear!
> 
> Love to you all!  
> H.S.F
> 
> P.S. Today is my birthday!!! 13th of December. I feel a day older than I did yesterday, and that day makes all the difference in the world. (In case it doesn't come through in my writing I was being sarcastic) :P


	13. I have friends in high places. No, you don’t get to growl at me, sourwolf. I will castrate you and whack you over the head with your own balls.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles talks to Deaton, and Chris, and then to everybody at once.

Alan Deaton was just writing down the report for his last client of the day (a German Shepherd who had somehow managed to get a open ended tin can trapped around his muzzle) when the bell above his door clanged in welcome.

Not looking up, he huffed out a sigh and continued scribbling on his notebook. "Sorry, we're closed." He said, eyes fixated on his paperwork. 

"Even for an old friend, Alan? I'm deeply hurt." The smile was already pulling the corners of his lips into an unusual and out of character grin before he had finished lifting his head. 

"Stiles." He greeted warmly, eyes open and friendly. The young man in question grinned back at him, all giddy excited awareness and bright hazel eyes, but he looked tired. Even more so than usual, more than was the norm for the powerful but stretched thin mage.

Stiles sauntered over to the counter elegantly, and, with a quick flick of his wrist, successfully removed the invisible mountain ash barrier that was supposed to prevent unpermitted magical beings from gaining access to all the rare and special items he had hidden in the backroom.

As a powerful and 'unknown' magic user, the ash wouldn't have, or, perhaps more correctly, _shouldn't_ have allowed him to do what he had just done, but little things like the laws of magic had never stopped Stiles before and seemed unlikely to affect him now.

Stiles vaulted over the countertop and flicked the barrier back into place with a swish of his fingers, brown hair tussled and looking windswept.

"What can I do for you?" The vet asked, instead of the question about the mage's well being that was on the tip of his tongue begging to be asked, because he knew that even if he did ask Stiles would just deflect. He was terribly good at that.

Stiles nodded jerkily to the back room and continued on his trajectory without pause, sending an absent-minded pulse of magic out to the startled animals in their cages. They settled down immediately, comforted by Stiles' presence like they had never been with any of the wolves.

Deaton held back a sigh that was more fond than exasperated. He cared for Stiles as a friend, a... colleague (for want of a better and more accurate word) and almost like an uncle, but the man often held the ability to drive him insane.

Were it anyone else, Deaton might have thought it was intentional, or that the sanity in leaving them alone with a roomful of overtly and incredibly powerful magical objects (mishaps, catastrophes and apocalypses just _waiting_ to happen) was, well, _not_.

But it wasn't anyone else, this was _Stiles_ , who held the most power in his body since _ever_ , and if _he_ couldn't be trusted to not explode or collapse the building around them then Deaton seriously doubted anyone would.

Following the mage-understandably wary of what exactly he might have gotten up to, even it had only been a few seconds (you might be surprised what magic and ADHD could do in such a short frame of time, there was a warehouse in Atlantis that could attest to _that_ )-, Deaton shut the door connecting the two rooms quietly behind him and turned around.

Stiles was leaning semi-casually against the wall, throwing a glass orb from hand to hand idly, eyebrows furrowed and eyes drawn almost magnetically to the floor. Deaton had to resist the ridiculous urge to run over, grab the encircled potion and cradle it to his chest.

But if Stiles dropped it he _would_ be made to re-sort the entire contents of the clinic's store room. _Without_ magic. Though how Deaton would be able to tell if the crafty teen was using magic was as of yet unknown.

"Careful you don't drop that. It contains a flesh-eating curse I've been working on for almost a decade."

Stiles put down the sphere so fast his hands were just a blur and a swish in the air. Deaton barely withheld the urge to chuckle. In reality it was nothing more than an everyday healing potion, but they did say that a little bit of caution never hurt anybody.

And the whole thing about cats and curiousity wouldn't have hurt Stiles to learn either.

Deaton crossed his arms over his chest. All light-hearted levity aside, while he and Stiles could loosely be considered 'friends' and definitely enjoyed each others' company, they didn't directly seek the other out unless they needed help.

If Stiles was here, now, and if the dark worried look in his eyes was any indication, this was much more than just a social call.

"What do you need, Stiles?" He asked gently, repeating his earlier question but this time not allowing Stiles any leeway to avoid it. Dealing with the mage could sometimes be likened with dealing with a startled animal. One wrong move and you ended up on your back with a knife to your throat.

Or, Deaton remembered, there was that one time it had been a potted plant. One does not forget being threatened with shrubbery very quickly.

Stiles took a few long seconds to gather his thoughts before asking abruptly, "What do you know of the recent surge in demonic activity?"

Deaton frowned. Demons were by no means his area of expertise, but he'd heard enough to know it meant **DANGER**. As the foremost expert in demons on the planet (should such a title be in any way real), however, if was... odd that Stiles would be coming to him.

"Enough." Deaton answered cautiously, eyes never leaving his one-time protégé's face. "I am aware of it, as is anyone with any semblance of magical awareness or knowledge. It's consequences are beyond me, but I know enough to fear the repercussions."

"Do you know of its origin?" As always with Stiles, the question was borderline rudely abrupt. It was nice to know he could be depended upon to forget or ignore (the line wavered) basic manners in times of emergency.

"I don't. And as far as my contacts go, neither do they. It seems to be a spontaneous event unrelated to the actions of any one being or group. Perhaps it could be linked to the heating of the globe or the advancement in technology, but neither of those seem particularly plausible to me." Catching how Stiles bit his lower lip in secrets unsaid (it was a common enough trait among those burdened with magic) Deaton inclined his head. "However, I don't pretend to know enough about ethereal realms to make an educated decision. You yourself happen to be my resident expert. Any insights you wish to share?"

Stiles blinked twice before smiling ruefully. "Nothing gets past you does it, Alan?" Deaton decided to take that as the compliment it was intended as rather than an insult he knew some people might take it as.

Stiles puffed his cheeks out before releasing them in a steady inhale. Seeming to make up his mind, he drummed his fingers hard against the countertop.

"Nothing to share at the moment, no. Soon though. Your particular brand of experience might be able to help me. Or at least," The mage cocked an eyebrow almost in a challenge, "I hope it could."

Deaton hid his smile behind his hand. "Be that as it may, you are here now, so I can only assume there is something for which you want my 'particular brand of expertise'." He raised both eyebrows. "Am I wrong?"

"No, you're not wrong." Stiles chuckled, before becoming serious once more. Reaching into the carrier bag slung low off his shoulder (which Deaton was fairly certain had _not_ been there for the majority of their conversation) he pulled out an object wrapped tightly in a shirt that fairly _sang_ with magic.

Stiles' smile did not reach his eyes. "You might want to step back." He advised, and Deaton did so hurriedly.

Carefully, but also in a way that made the move seem oddly and bemusedly defiant, Stiles set it down on the table before taking a large step back himself.

Deaton had only a split second to witness Stiles bracing himself against the hard edge of the table and casting a quick spell of protection on the various potions and magical artefacts lining the room (Deaton made a mental note to thank him for it later) before he dropped the magic binding the shirt and its contents.

Nothing happened. Deaton raised his eyes to Stiles in confusion. Stiles was faintly pale under the bright white lights of the clinic, small beads of sweat rolling almost unnoticeable down his forehead, his light grey pallor nearly indistinguishable from his usual skin tone. Nearly. Shifting his gaze back to the table, Deaton looked at the gun, lying there innocent and innocuous, like any other ordinary, run-of-the-mill metal firearm.

But it was almost impossible to tell of any in-discrepancies from mere sight alone.

Stepping forward, he extended an arm as if to touch it, to pick it up and bring it closer to his face for inspection. Immediately his arm was frozen in place with a sharp tang of magic, and Stiles let out an exclaimed, startled yell as response.

"Don't!"

His fingers were frozen not a yard from the firearm. Stiles' hand was reaching forward when he yelled, as if to grab and restrain his wrist, prevent him from making contact with the sleek metal.

Stiles' breathing was laboured, then, and shallow, and the dark bags under his eyes looked somehow impossibly larger over the span of a few seconds.

"What is it, Stiles?" The vet asked calmly, hand still frozen and extended in little in front of his body. The man in question glanced up sharply.

"Don't you know enough not to just go around touching strange or foreign magical objects?! What if it turned you to dust, or poisoned you, or just out and out _killed_ you?! Where the hell would that leave us?" He demanded of the vet harshly, and his breath came in funny little bursts that echoed in his chest like wheezes.

Deaton felt his eyebrows draw together.

"My apologies. I assumed, perhaps rashly, that since you were the one to carry it and bring it here that it was safe. You are right, however, caution is never unwarranted and one must always be on guard in the world we live in."

Stiles relaxed then, and when Deaton felt the magic release him he pulled him arm back within the relative safety of his side. Gently flexing the kinks out of his muscles, he tried to pre-emptively dissuade the pins and needles sensation he could practically _feel_ inching its way up his older, calloused fingers.

His eyes flicked to the item in question, where it lay unmoved and unbothered by what went on around it. A creeping sensation drifted across the ex-emissary's shoulder-blades, and he was suddenly immensely grateful for Stiles' timely interruption.

Why, he was unsure, but Deaton had learned to trust his instincts and at that moment they were screaming at him to get as far away from the gun as he could. Restraining himself, Deaton slowly walked around the edge of the table, careful so as not to disturb it so much as an inch.

He grasped Stiles' shoulder with his hand. "What is going on?" He asked gently, voice low, and Stiles' weary glittering eyes raised to his with something akin to reluctance and despair.

The mage clasped his hand over the older man's, and swallowed.

"That, my friend, is the weapon that can kill us all. You've heard of it of course, though the significance and true identity has not yet hit you. I'll help."

Stiles dropped his hand and pulled away from the vet's touch, gold tinted hazel eyes fixated on the table. He walked around to the opposite side before raising his head, gaze flying to Deaton's once more.

"It cannot be destroyed, only hidden. Can't be stopped, only unused, abandoned, forgotten. This has the power to kill anyone, at any time, with only one hit, one shot and you're dead. One bullet can tear through shields, barriers, defensive magic, offensive magic, anything it could possibly face, anything that could be used as protection. Right now it's taken the form of a common gun, nothing particularly special or eye-catching, but I imagine you know of it as something far different- something _far_ more ancient. It wouldn't be a very good idea to speak it's name, not here, not... with everything that's happening in the world. I've managed to direct most of it's impact into me, and since you deal mostly with herbal or defensive magic you are not predisposed to feeling it, unlike the rest of us. You should still feel it though, just a little, something slimy and slick along your senses, something unnatural and _wrong_ , creeping its way where it shouldn't and whispering where it has no right. Pure, malicious, unfiltered evil. Or at least, that's what it would be were I not absorbing as much of it as I can. So, Alan." And Stiles' smile in that moment was layered with emotions too powerful to name, too numerous to mention, an ironic twist of unfiltered lips and callous, bitter memory. "Do you know it yet? Does it ring any bells?"

Deaton gaped at the mage, disbelief etched in every tired wrinkled of his face. "It can't be..." He murmured finally, eyes irrefutably drawn against his will to the table in front of him and the weapon not a metre away.

Silence reigned for a few long tense seconds, both magic wielder's eyes on the steel operating table.

"It is impossible." Deaton murmured finally, head shaking lightly as if he could deny the proof in front of his eyes by will alone.

Stiles smiled a bitter smile, one corner of his mouth pulled higher than the other with a self-depreciating tinge to his expression. "Didn't you hear, Alan?" He asked, a small huff of angry laughter escaping from his lips, eyes flaring and jaw clenched tight. "Nothing is impossible."

Deaton frowned, attention trained on the young mage pacing across from him.

Voice quiet, the vet asked, "What do you need me to do?"

Stiles' breath rushed from his body in one loud whoosh, and he braced himself on the counter, forearms straining, head hanging low between his elbows.

Then he pushed himself back up to standing, fingers going up to his dark hair and teasing the strands between nimble fingers, eyes clasped firmly shut. Deaton kept his silence and didn't speak a word, too familiar with Stiles' particular brand of thinking to be stupid enough to try and interrupt his thought process.

His eyes finally fluttered open. "Nothing." He answered, as if declaring some major feat, some impossible task.

"At least, not yet. Not for this." Stiles quickly corrected himself, folding his arms over his chest and letting his head fall back against the plain even brick.

"So why are you here?" Rude? Perhaps. But Deaton had found straight up direct questions were often the best way to get honest replies. And Stiles had never been one to stand on ceremony, at least as long as the vet had known him.

Stiles rubbed a hand over his eyes, sighing, before resting his fist on his forehead. "Figured something like this was going down you'd want to know. Also to invite you to a special little war council/pow-wow later with the wolves- the best way to prepare for what's coming is, ironically enough, to tell you all about what's already happened."

Deaton pursed his lips. "Anything else?" He asked, feeling as if something went unsaid.

Stiles grinned at him, but his elation didn't reach his eyes. "You know me so well." Sobering, the young mage made sure to lock his eyes with the vet's, trying to impart the seriousness of his request to him.

"They can't know about this. Technically, you don't either, so if you could keep it on the down low that I told you I'd appreciate it. I don't know how this is going to turn out, and I've got plans to deal with this," His upper lip curled as he gaze strayed to the gun both had been trying to ignore, " _aberration_ , but if, for some reason, I can't get it back after all is said and done I need you to make contact with someone for me. They'll know what to do."

"Why not just tell them now?"

Stiles snorted. "And risk them coming all the way here to drag my sorry ass somewhere that didn't cause me emotional, psychological and mental stress for over a year? Not a chance. I've got a job to do, and I'm not about to just abandon an entire town to the _mercy_ of one of the demons of my past."

Stiles seemed oddly pleased and proud of himself for the double meaning, but it soon vanished beneath his weary expression. "I can give you the details later, but for now this meeting, hell, even the fact that we talked, never happened. You know nothing, I told you nothing, and maybe if we're lucky we'll both live to fight again another day."

Walking the step over to the table, Stiles grimaced as he threw the tattered shirt over the weapon, pale skin growing paler as he picked it up carefully in one hand, as if it were a lit fuse or dynamite.

The mage went to disappear then, hand raised in the universal symbol of _goodbye_ , but at the last second he paused.

"8 o'clock, Hale house, don't be late. Also if you happen to have any tincture of poppy or essence of hydrilla, I would really appreciate you bringing it along. 'Till then!"

With no more pomp than a muttered word Stiles vanished, and the only sense that he was ever there was the lingering sense of _wrongness_ in the air and the magical boundary protecting all his herbs.

Deaton sighed. "Poppy and hydrilla. For the sake of all of us I hope he knows what he's doing."

...

A knock on the door drew Chris Argent from the kitchen, where he had been chopping vegetables for his and Allison's dinner.

Rubbing hands slightly damp from the tap against the front of his trousers, Chris' eyebrows drew together. Who the hell could that be? Allison was with the wolves, and even if she wasn't she had a key. The pack didn't really come to his house, and other hunters would call before entering his turf never mind his house.

Casually reaching one hand behind him to grasp his gun, he reached the other forward and pulled open the door.

"Hey Chris! Can I call you Chris? Awesome, well I was just in the neighbourhood, and you know me I love talking to people so I thought, 'Hey, why not drop in on our resident papa-hunter and see how everything's going'? And then, well, I had to talk to you _anyway_ about the whole apocalypse deal, and I kind of need to ask a favour, so two birds one stone I suppose!"

Stiles paused for breath, cheeks flushed and body relaxed. Chris blinked. And blinked again. "Stiles?" He asked disbelievingly, and Stiles shot him a hundred watt grin.

"Yep, that'd be me! Mage extraordinaire and avid comic fan, self-called geek and somehow the only person other than Allison who can pull off the whole, 'I'm a funny, sarcastic, nice person but if you cross me I will shoot you repeatedly through the chest with arrows', successfully, which, you know, is kinda cool and all, except bows and arrows aren't really my _thing_. You gonna invite me inside or what?"

Chris blinked once more before stepping aside to let the teenager through the door. Stiles strolled in, shutting the door firmly behind him. "Is there somewhere we can talk, Chris?" He asked quietly, his entire demeanour changed to one of business. Chris shook his head to clear it and nodded jerkily.

"Sitting room. And don't call me that." He muttered, still trying to wrap his head around the fact he had somehow let Stiles into his house. Was it magic? Did he get spelled?

Watching Stiles warily with one eye, he nearly missed it when the young mage rolled his eyes and ignored his admonishment. "No, I didn't spell you or use magic or slip you something."

Chris startled, hand reaching behind for his gun without his permission. Stiles sighed and collapsed dramatically back on the cream couch, limbs all akimbo.

"God, you hunters are all so damn suspicious. No, I am not psychic, nor have I possessed or ever wanted any form of telepathy or psychic ability. I didn't spell you, or drug you, or in any way shape or form impair your judgement. And I know what went through your head because contrary to what you like to believe, yes, you are that easy to read."

Chris forced his body to smoothen and relax, un-tensing each muscle until he felt less like a live wire. Stiles waited, head thrown back on the back of the couch, fingers tapping an unconscious rhythm that betrayed his impatience.

"Why are you here, Stiles?" He asked gruffly, voice stern and unyielding, the voice that sent hunters into military mode and Scott into panic.

Unfortunately, he wasn't lucky enough for it to have any such effect on Stiles. The man seemed almost _amused_.

 _Goddamn it_.

"I am here to offer my assistance." He declared proudly, arm thrown casually over the back of the couch and wide uneven smirk lifting his mouth at the corners. Chris restrained the urge to tell him to get his boots off the coffee table. Barely.

"With what?" The hunter asked uneasily, vivid recollections of the battle he had told him about running in the background of his mind. If you could even call it a 'battle' with such uneven odds. In Stiles' favour, from what he had been told. And then again with the other batch of hunters who tried to screw with the mage and ended up either a splatter on the wall or unconscious on the dirt.

"Welp," Stiles popped the last letter, resounding 'p' sounding faintly like mockery, before lounging even, impossibly further into the couch. For a moment Chris worried he'd sink into it and never be seen again. A mage was probably harder to get out of a couch then a wine stain.

"I couldn't help but notice that, during that whole 'kanima' deal a while back, when we had to get a hold of your family's bestiary, well, while I wouldn't dare insult a hunter on their personal family kill-list, that's just _begging_ for trouble, I do have to say that it is no where near the level of standard I've gotten used to in the Big Apple. So I figured, I already have to ask Chris to come to the war council thingy this evening, why don't I suggest touching up his little diary o' horrors while I'm at it? Not that I'm judging you guys for not having anything on, like, 60% of supernatural creatures even if you are supposed to be one of the strongest hunter families in the world and all that jazz, I mean, about a third of the people I meet don't tell just anyone about their species so they're hardly gonna tell the people who's _job_ it is to kill them. Right? Don't take it personally, Silver, I'm one of the lucky ones."

Chris found himself resorting back to just blinking once more. "Silver?" He asked as his mind caught up, brain tripping over that little name he was fairly certain Stiles' had applied to _him_. Undeterred, the mage continued.

"I mean, obviously I won't be putting everything that I know in there, and some species are gonna remain secret, but for the files and things you already have I could probably get them up to date, add new and relevant information, yada yada you get the idea."

"Silver?" Chris asked again incredulously, and Stiles finally blinked up at him in surprise.

"Huh?" The mage's face twisted in confusion before suddenly smoothing out in realisation. He snorted. "Well your name's Argent, isn't it? Argent is Silver in a bunch of languages so it seemed like the logical next step."

Chris frowned. "Well don't call me that. It's not my name."

Stiles smirked at him. "Okay, Chris."

Chris was left with the distinct impression he was just played by a teenager. He didn't appreciate it, but after living with Alison all her life it was an intimately familiar sensation. Same snark, different package.

Knowing a lost cause when he saw one (at least half the time, anyway), Chris thought back over Stiles' offer. It was kind. Almost _too_ kind.

Squinting his eyes at the teen suspiciously, Chris tried to think of anything he had the mage might want. Nothing sprang to mind that Stiles couldn't just get some easier way. This seemed an unnecessarily difficult way to get information.

"What's the catch?"

Stiles spluttered in indignation, but there was crinkle of amusement and... was that _approval_?... in his eyes when he answered.

"What makes you think there's a catch? Maybe I'm doing this out of the goodness of my heart, what then?"

Chris sighed, barely resisting the infantile urge to roll his eyes. He was _not_ going to sink to their levels. Emotions (and especially exasperation) could be conveyed without flicking his eyes to the sky. He hoped.

"But you're not." He insisted, and Stiles laughed.

"Okay, you caught me. I want to have a look at an entry in your bestiary and figured you were unlikely to just loan me it. But since I don't plan on sticking around after this mess is all cleaned up and off the streets it would probably be prudent for you to accept my help in updating your book anyway. It's a win-win scenario here."

Chris looked at the mage carefully for any signs of deceit, but the man just watched him back, face an open book.

Chris was pathologically distrustful of open books. But then again, this was _Stiles_. If he didn't accept his help or at the very least thank him for the offer Allison would kill him for it. And an angry Allison meant a lot of passive aggressive werewolf sleepovers with Scott, which he _did not_ want to think about, in any lifetime.

"What about those hunters you fought?" The older man asked, one eyebrow raised, because having been the one to deal with a bunch of terrified leaderless hunters standing on his porch with all their weapons gone and pupils as wide as abyss', well, it made a man cautious.

Stiles shrugged nonchalantly. "Hey, they attacked first, not the other way around. Not my problem if some of you guys want to be dicks, but I'm not going to sit back and make like I can't or won't stand my ground and knock you out."

"What about the ones you killed?" In his mind's eye, Chris could still see the wall painted red, body laying where it had fallen and mouth wide in horror at the realisation of impending doom.

Stiles scoffed as if his body count wasn't slowly adding up. "Come on, you can't say the bastards didn't deserve it."

Chris tightened his jaw. "And you can?" He demanded loudly, eyes unfocused and memories of blood splattered walls and an old enemy with a black pitiless gaze running behind his lids. "What, are you judge, jury and executioner now? Who are you to make those sort of decisions? What gives you the _right_ to decide who lives, and who dies? Or is that what you _do_ now? Kill whoever you want and damn the consequences? The ends justify the means? Who the _hell_ do you think you are?"

Painfully, terribly slowly, Stiles raised his head until his eyes bore into the hunter's with a ferocity borne of nightmares; all levity gone from every line of his body.

"Who am I?" He repeated quietly, head tilted at just the slightest angle, lips curling around the words like a lover's caress. "I'm the only one who can, Argent. I'm the only one who can see the bigger picture and is willing to do whatever it takes to prevent it. You think you have the inhumanity to be me? Because _someone_ has to. Someone has to make the shitty decisions, the no-win scenarios, the lesser of two evils. And if you think you have what it takes, then by all means you take over. Because this?" He gestured angrily to his chest, to the damning black lines Chris only just now noticed crawling their way over the tip of his shirt, etched like wounds and burned like brands into his skin.

"Me? This isn't one of those stories where the _hero_ ," He said the word like a curse, spitting it out, every letter dripping with malice, "Gets a 'Happily Ever After'. This. Doesn't. End. And _maybe_ we stop the apocalypse, _maybe_ this town lives to see another summer, and _maybe_ if you are all incredibly, unbelievably lucky this is the last truly evil thing you will have to deal with. But me?"

Stiles laughed, a bitter, harsh sound, and it echoed through the room like a gunshot. "I don't get out of this. I'm in this for life. Do you get that? For. Life. I will be fighting every day of my life to make sure people like you get to have one. I will be who I am and do what I do until the day I die so that somebody else doesn't have to. So don't come up to me, all judgemental and hypocritical, and expect me to _defend_ my actions to _you_. Don't bother wasting the breath."

Stiles stood up abruptly, long legs making him tower over the still seated hunter.

"There's a meeting to talk about the end of the world at the Hale house, 20:00. My offer still stands, and I'll see you there."

And then he was gone, like a whisper in the wind. Chris rubbed one calloused hand over his chin, pondering the mage's last statement which sounded more like a threat then a reassurance.

He felt as if he should apologise, and what was worse was that only half of his reason to apologise was his daughter. The other half was the roiling mass of _fuck it, he's right_ sitting heavy in his stomach.

Glancing at the clock, Chris sighed before heading back to the kitchen to finish up dinner. He could apologise later; right now, he had vegetables to chop and a lot of time to think.

...

Derek sat back in his chair, arms folded and brows furrowed into a creased 'v'. Around the table, all sat in their own seat with their own almost identical mirrored frowns.

All, that was, except for Stiles and Lydia, who stood conversing quietly at the foot of the table, thoroughly ignoring everyone around them. Derek listened to their hushed speech, and his frown deepened.

What the hell? Was that... were they talking in _Latin_? Wasn't that supposed to be a dead language, as in, _no one spoke it anymore_? Incredulous, Derek turned beseeching eyes to his pack, who responded with slightly awe-filled looks at the two.

At the bottom of the table, nearest to Lydia, with one seat in between them, sat Jackson, his hands fiddling with something Derek couldn't see, arguably the only one among them who was completely unsurprised by Stiles and Lydia's conversing in another language. On the chair beside him Erica sat, filing her nails with a knife casually and her long hair lying loosely over her shoulder. Beside her, one arm resting over the back of her chair, Boyd stared intently at the table, as if filing every crease, every line, away for further analysis.

Next to them Isaac sat with his head fallen back, eyes staring at the ceiling and shoulders loose on the wooden slats of the chair, awareness focused on the two people on his left even if he didn't know it himself.

On his left, hands clasped together and fingers linked tightly, were Scott and Allison. Scott's head rested on Allison's bare shoulder, her free hand running through his hair, his eyes closed and a small, weary smile on his lips.

Across from them was a glaring Chris Argent, eyes drifting between watching his daughter and her boyfriend with a hawk-eyed intensity and flicking over to Stiles, expression almost contrite. Derek pondered the significance of that for a second, before allowing his gaze to drift to Deaton, sitting almost separate, hands steepled on the table in front of him as if he were praying.

Hell, maybe he was.

At the far end of the table, a shit-eating smirk on his face and an eager glint in his eye, Peter lounged back into his seat as if it were a throne and he a king, and all of them, excepting Stiles and Lydia, his subjects. Those two he treated with a hard-earned respect, and, in Stiles' case at least, with a deferential snarkiness Stiles seemed to enjoy. Probably because it was how he himself used to act with Derek- but with less deferential-ness and a hell of a lot more sarcasm. And it may sound like Derek was bitter, but, truly, he preferred it. Even Alphas make mistakes.

And Peter, for all his short-comings and bad habits, got on with Stiles in a way Peter rarely did, sitting on the chair closest to where he was standing and smiling like he knew the secrets of the universe.

And then there was Derek. Arms still folded, one clenched fist crushed into his side, eyes boring holes into the back of Stiles' head as he and Lydia continued their conversation, oblivious to the rising discomfort and tense silence of the others in the room.

Finally, after what felt like a muffled eternity, Stiles turned back around. He flashed a quick, false smile, and Lydia's jaw clenched as she took her seat beside him.

"You're probably wondering why I gathered you all here today." Stiles began in a sombre voice, and for a split second Derek was _sure_ that was some sort of pop culture reference he couldn't possibly know but sounded vaguely familiar, but Stiles continued speaking before he could wonder further.

"So, to give you all a brief summary." Stiles held up his hand and ticked off each finger as he mentioned something new, voice ridiculously cheerful for the topic at hand. "One. I kill a demon. 2. That demon comes back. 3. Said demon wants to destroy Beacon Hills as some sort of revenge move. Four. Obviously, that ain't going to happen. So here we are at five, with me telling you how this is going to go down. But before I do, I unfortunately have go into a bit of detail about the _how_ , just because if any of you ask my questions later I will not be responsible for my actions. We clear? Good."

Stiles spared a second to flash his golden-tinted eyes at the group, before his gaze hardened and he leaned one hip against the table.

"I have died twice in my entire life." Stiles ignored the startled jumps of the people before him, their wide eyes and disbelieving expressions. "The first time was a month after I left here. There was a..." His gaze darted to Lydia, once, just briefly, just quick enough that anyone normal, anyone _human_ wouldn't have seen it. She reacted just as quickly, jaw tightening before relaxing in the same instant. He seemed to read into it, it seemed to _mean _something to him.__

Stiles coughed to hide the spilt second delay, before speaking again in the same tone, a frightening levity and joviality being forced out between clenched teeth.

"Well, let's just say there was an incident. My heart stopped beating. I was legally dead for what, three, four minutes? Something like that, anyway. S'not important. The important thing is that for those few minutes my, _soul_ , for lack of a better word, wasn't in my body. And since it wasn't in my body it had to be somewhere else, right?"

Stiles paused for a moment, pressing his joined hands to his face and pulling downwards until the tips of his fingers rested on his chin, thumbs just beneath his Adam's apple. And Derek felt absolutely no inclination to have his hands where Stiles' where. At all.

 _Shut up_.

Stiles let out a long breath, before his hands dropped down to rest palm-down on the table. He lifted his eyes, looking up at them from beneath long eyelashes, one lock of hair falling across his right eye and obscuring his view. He blew it back with a burst of exhale from the corner of his mouth, tip of his tongue peering out from between his lips.

"Imagine for a second that our reality is a single plane of existence. This," Stiles gestured around them, loose hand movement encompassing everything they saw. "Is our plane, the base plane. Now, beside this plane is another one, which is where magic comes into it. Mages, sorcerers, magicians, call them what you will, they are capable of accessing this plane. Most humans aren't. Any supernatural creatures, werewolves, fairies, banshees, they can all touch this other plane, to various degrees. The third plane, and the last one that any of you will ever need to know, is the demonic plane, also known as hell. Special people, psychics, clairvoyants, can, commonly through dreams or seizures or visions, see into this plane, which is where the religious concept of hell comes from. When I died, because of who I am," And again he shot a glance at Lydia, that split second meeting of eyes more telling than a declaration, "And what I do, my spirit went there. Fortunately for me, a friend was there to zap my ass with magic and restore my life. Unfortunately for the rest of the world, when I was brought back it opened up a hole in the," Stiles fumbled a bit with his words, almost as if he were translating it from another language. "Curtain between planes."

There was a rising tide of dismay in the group, and Stiles ignored it with his usual lack of fanfare.

"It wasn't big, " He explained, pained smile on his face, "But it was enough that when a certain demon decided he wanted to wreak havoc on the world he was able to slip through. That demon is the one we face today, and, trust me, you really don't want to know his name. Due to the circumstances, and his lack of strength from his passage through to our plane, we didn't get out first meeting until a few weeks before I arrived back. Short version is this; we fought, he died, and I moved on to other pursuits, other jobs. Except now he's back, and I am the only one who has any chance of defeating him. I have a plan all prepared, so don't worry about that, but your _assistance_ would be valuable in this endeavour. Of course, I'm not going to force you to do anything. That's why we're here. So I can ask- who will stay, and who will go? Leaving does not make certain your survival, but staying really lowers your odds. If you're gonna go, if this is too much, I will not judge you harshly for it. This is not your battle. So if," Stiles paused, and his eyes made contact with the eyes' of everyone at the table, startlingly and feverishly bright, "If you're not going to stay and fight with every breath in your body, I suggest you walk out that door right now and don't look back. I don't have the time to cater to anybody who won't give their all, and for that I'm sorry. Stay or go. It is your decision."

No one moved a muscle. All eyes stayed on the mage, Derek's included, no one even contemplating the idea of walking out now. Stiles smiled, an echo of his old one that made Derek's heart ache in his chest, and sat down with a finality everyone recognised.

They were all in now, like it or not. There was no backing out now, and the weighted gazes of everyone at the table knew it.

Stiles clapped his hands together loudly, breaking the harsh silence when the echo if it rebounded through the small room. Derek averted his eyes from Stiles' flushed cheeks and star-bright eyes, forcing a scowl onto his face so he could ignore the wolf whining inside him.

"All righty then, now that that's settled, I was thin-"

Boyd's voice cut across Stiles', thick with confusion and reluctance and an eerily familiar determinism, like Derek had just offered him the bite all over again.

"Wait, you said 'twice'. I mean, you said you've died twice, and that's only once. What was the other time?" Stiles' words halted, and Derek found himself holding his breath for the answer. He didn't really want to know, didn't want to think about or consider the fact that driving Stiles away had only resulted in his death at least once, but he felt as if he _had_ to know.

Something flashed in Stiles eyes, but his smile stayed on his face throughout Boyd's question, and, when he spoke, his voice was steady. "That's a story for another time, guys. Definitely not now. Anyway, as I was saying, this demon will want to attack us in such a way that we _know_ he's coming. He's big on dramatics. Now, luckily for us he hasn't got corporeal form, but I know he'll be looking for a dead body to inhabit. I'm hoping that if we...-"

Derek zoned out a little as Stiles' calm, capable voice washed over him, out-lining plans and schemes and possible scenarios with the occasional interjection of one of the gathered people.

It seemed that Stiles already had everything planned out, every last possible event and circumstance crafted down into a tee. It was a simple plan, banking on the demon's predictability and Stiles' power, as well as the pack's fighting skills, to see them through. They'd attract the demon to a place nearby with a strategically located corpse he could inhabit that would increase his power, Stiles would attack him while he was weak, and the pack would make sure Stiles stayed safe and prevent any demons or creatures under the other demons command from escaping to wreak havoc on the town.

There were a lot of holes though. A lot of what-if's. And maybe if Derek didn't have this leaden rock in his stomach telling him that there was something else at play here he might be as easily convinced as the others at the table.

But experience, and instinct, and pure dumb luck had brought him this far, and they were all telling him the same thing.

Stiles was hiding something, and Derek would have bet his life it was to do with the second time he died. His eyes caught hold of Stiles' and held, green meeting hazel, wolf meeting magic, and all he could think was that he was putting a lot of faith into someone to keep his pack, his town, and the entire world safe.

And there wasn't a single bone in his body that regretted it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow it's late, I'm tired, I'm sorry, I've only had like 5/6 hours sleep a night for the last week and only 3 last Monday (late night netflix is not good for my soul).
> 
> This chapter was incredibly hard to write and took forever (as you all know), so once again I'm sorry for the delay. Forgive me? *puppy dog eyes*
> 
> There are only going to be a few chapters more before all this is done, and i have a rough draft of them in my head ready to be typed!
> 
> This is kind of a filler chapter, more to explain things later on or things that have already happened, but next chapter will be different! Promise!
> 
> My sincere apologies for all incoherencies, in-discrepancies, problems, but I havent read over it in one go and i wont for a few more days at least. Yep, that's my excuse and I'm sticking to it. ;)
> 
> Okay, warnings for pain-ish, memories of violence, memories of death (non-graphic) and, uh, general shitty life? I dont even know anymore *shakes head dejectedly*.
> 
> So thats all, and if ive missed anything drop a comment and ill fix it asap. Like ever before, no Beta here so all mistake are on me!
> 
> Thank you everyone who read, commented, kudos'd, subscribed and spread the word, I never thought this would get this kind of reception from you all! More than 900 kudos and 20,000 reads!! Honestly it means so much to me, so i will try and get the next chapter up much much sooner, but I do have exams next week and the week after so well have to see how they go! Wish me luck!
> 
> Love as always,  
> H.S.F


	14. Excuse me? I happen to have loads of friends. Tons. And some of them are actual human friends too. Yeah, beat that Mr I-only-need-my-pack-for-company.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The pack fight some baddies, learn about griffins, bond, and Derek's libido is a problem, but not necessarily in that order.

The house was quiet the morning after the meeting. It was ten going on eleven, and most everyone was still asleep after a long night of planning and general seriousness. It had taken Stiles until twelve to outline his plan, and the pack a few hours longer to convince themselves of its validity.

Boyd and Erica had ascended to their room around four, quickly and eagerly followed by Allison, Scott and Isaac. Peter had disappeared not long after, Derek had no idea when Deaton left but he wasn't currently in the house so he had to have gone at _some_ point in the early hours of the morning, and Stiles had departed with Chris with only a few muttered words to Lydia, saying something about a job and a promise. Derek tried not to think that was ominous. Really.

Lydia had been up until five, a perpetual cup of coffee sitting constantly in front of her as she leafed through heavy tomes and think waxy books. Jackson had eventually dragged her off with the promise of watching the Notebook in their room, but Derek had heard the deep and easy breaths of sleep from the two of them a few minutes later.

He himself had managed to grab a couple of hours in between all the insanity of demons and the arrival of the sun, and his werewolf stamina was probably the only reason why he wasn't currently comatose with sleep deprivation. He was damn close, though.

Derek was just putting some bacon on a pan- idly wondering if the sizzling sound and greasy smell would be enough to wake his pack- when Stiles trounced- _trounced_ \- into the living room. Derek hadn't even heard the front door open. Come to think of it, he was fairly certain it hadn't been. Goddamn mages.

Stiles looked about as tired as he felt, but his actions and expressions were as precise and awake as ever. Leaning over the table on one foot the teenager snagged Lydia's now cold cup of coffee in his left hand, bringing it to his lips while murmuring a soft incantation. As Derek watched in the six seconds it took the mug to reach Stiles' lips, steam could be seen rising from the suddenly boiling liquid. Derek hadn't ever seen magic used in that way before, as easy and second-nature as blinking yet strangely hypnotic, as if Stiles was murmuring to him and him only.

His dick twitched. No, no, it did not, because Derek was not listening to his whining wolf and he had better control over his reactions and watching Stiles' long fingers as they wrapped around the mug was not making him think dirty thoughts. God, Derek hated himself sometimes.

"G' Morning.'' The greeting slid from his lips like honey, and there was no way he was imagining the tension in the air, was there? Or the way Stiles' shoulders tightened just a little at the sound of his voice, like he hadn't even known Derek was there at all.

"'Lo." Stiles responded with a quick nod, cup still pressed against his lips, before he dropped his head back and drained the coffee in one swift gulp. For a split second, Derek worried about him burning his throat before he remembered. _Right. Magic_.

Maybe the exhaustion was effecting him more than he had originally thought. That was a much preferable reason to the way Stiles' messy hair made Derek _itch_ to run his fingers through it, and the way his too bright eyes looked like beacons in the bright sunlight pouring through the windows. He was so screwed.

Derek kept his eyes glued to his pan, and Stiles to his coffee. The space between them felt uncomfortably thick with words unspoken and emotions Derek couldn't put his finger on.

 _I should probably say something_.

Derek had just opened his mouth to speak- what, he had no idea, and in hindsight the interruption probably saved his life because anything he would've said in that moment was _not_ going to be good- when a stumbling troop of teenaged werewolves, hunter and banshee sniffed their way to the kitchen.

Judging by Allison, Isaac and Boyd's pleading faces when they entered the kitchen, they were all spending much too much time around Scott.

And, judging by the way Derek sighed and handed over his food before opening up another packet, he was a complete and utter push over. Not that that had been particularly surprising to anyone who had put any thought into it.

The pack settled themselves easily into the kitchen, bodies and minds familiar enough with the routine to do it without conscious thought. Stiles hovered purposefully on the outskirts of the room, as if he were one beat ahead of the song they were singing and completely unapologetic for it.

The way he leaned casually against the light wood door- the coffee mug vanished from his hands as if it had never been there-, his eyes tracing the co-ordinated movements and easy familiarity the pack shared, a small smirk on his face and one hand pressed very lightly against his stomach, told a better story than his disparages and sneers ever could; Stiles, for better or worse, refused to include himself as part of the pack.

Derek could hardly blame him. He had been having a hard enough time the last few weeks himself remembering their- at the time seemingly valid- reasons for kicking Stiles from the pack. It had only been with the intention of his safety, Derek could recall that much, but it was mildly embarrassing how much of it was, in hindsight, fear and worry.

Fear of Stiles dying, or growing to resent them ( _him_ ) for removing his chance at a normal life; sans werewolves and full moon calendars and hunters who go after stronger things than deer. Worry that Stiles' innate sense of responsibility and his tendency to sacrifice himself would get him killed- a suspicion which had proven true after hearing Stiles' story.

For the human and worst fighter among them, Stiles had an absolutely horrible habit of getting himself in situations where fighting skills were needed- whether with Peter, Jackson as the kanima in the Pool Incident that definitely deserved capital letters, a wolfy Scott, the Argents (both pre, post, and during Gerard) and then again every time something dangerous reared it's head.

When it came down to it, Stiles was a fighter by nature, hell, an _Alpha_ by nature. He didn't take orders well, he didn't care for a lot of people but those he did care for had a protector for life, he spent as much time, if not more, solving other people's problems and putting to rest other people's fears as he did his own.

To put it simply; Stiles was a human running with wolves, and if they kept going the way they were going something had to give. When Derek was faced with that being Stiles' life or his place in the pack, it had seemed a _ridiculously_ easy and simple choice.

Stiles would have been pissed, hurt, angry, sarcastic, hateful, depressed, lonely; but at least he would have been _alive_.

Derek had never counted on Stiles leaving, and, ironically enough, it was only after the object of his affections left that he realised his feelings for the teenager. It had probably worked out better that way. There was an entire _ocean_ of reasons why he and Stiles wouldn't have made a good couple- their conflicting personalities, the age difference, the fact that Stiles' dad was the Sheriff and Derek a fugitive not even a few months previous to name a few- and their situation now was not much better for romance.

There were so many reasons why he and Stiles were just not going to happen. The sooner his boner and whining wolf got the message, the better.

...

It was three o'clock in the afternoon before anything happened. They were all in small groups in the living room- that had morphed into a meeting room somewhere along the way-, bodies relaxed and conversation at a lull. School had been out for the break for over four days thankfully, which meant no awkward classes or rushed conversations or pretending to give a damn about Pythagoras' Theorem.

Derek raised his head to watch his pack and Stiles interact- Lydia's reassuring hand on the mage's arm, Isaac's back tucked against his legs, Allison's almost physical _itch_ to ask questions even as Scott refused himself all but the most forlorn of glances.

Jackson's head rested on Lydia's lap- the teen for once unashamed to show emotion in a way that would have proven impossible for him before the bite-, and Erica and Boyd lay a little way off, their hands clasped and Erica's head resting on Stiles' shoulder. It looked so terribly _cosy_ , as if Stiles was as much a part of the pack as he has been before, and it physically hurt Derek to see.

He'd missed it. Missed Stiles, even if he could only admit it in the privacy of his own head, where nobody would ever know. Stiles, as if sensing his gaze, lifted his glittering hazel eyes to Derek's, and watched him, expression closed.

They stared at each other, neither wanting to look away, yet knowing they couldn't remain as they were forever. Derek licked his lips, and for the smallest of seconds Derek could have _sworn_ Stiles' focus followed the movement; but it was so brief the chances of it being merely wishful thinking were incredibly high. And Stiles- while he might not hate Derek anymore, as evidenced by their discussion two days ago that Derek still wasn't sure he understood-, Stiles _did. Not. Like. Derek_.

That had been very clear from practically the moment they had met. At least not in _that_ way. Sure, Stiles saved his life (more times than he had been willing to admit back when pride seemed so important), and their trademark snarky sarcasm could make even the most stoic person shake their heads in exasperation, but for one, Stiles had been the number one fan of the brutally female Lydia Martin for _years_. How was Derek supposed to compete with that?

And Stiles had never showed the slightest interest in men or people of the male persuasion- _that_ , at least, Derek was pretty sure he would have been able to smell- while in Beacon Hills. Admittedly, Stiles might have explored his sexuality and/or expanded his horizons while away, but even then Stiles had never shown any indication Derek was his type.

The staring thing they currently had going on was merely a representation of the amount of stress they were both currently under. it did not mean Derek wanted to do anything inappropriate, or sexual, or erotic, or... _anything_ that he wouldn't otherwise do. Okay?

Even if Stiles looked terrifyingly good in red.

Fuck, Derek was so screwed.

Their intense staring-into-each-other's-eyes-but-not-in-a-eye-fucking-way moment was broken by Isaac, who had apparently just thought up an urgent question that demanded and immediate response. Was Derek bitter at their eye contact being broken? _No_.

Was that a complete and total lie because Derek's new favourite hobby was staring at the little golden and green sparks in the mage's eyes?

Derek tried not to think about it. That way lead only to embarrassment, pity, and awkward boners.

"Hey, has anyone seen Danny?" A few of the pack hummed a negative, but Derek saw Stiles' head nod once.

"I asked him to do something for me with Chris. He's updating the bestiary and getting himself caught up with who's who in the supernatural world. When I left this morning he was drooling over griffins, but I didn't have the heart to tell him they've been endangered since the 20th century."

No one said anything, until, very hesitantly, Allison spoke up with what they were all thinking. "Griffins?" She asked, and Stiles' snort was _not_ attractive, and his eye roll did _not_ make Derek want to kiss him, and denial is not _only_ a river in Egypt.

"Yeah, griffins. You know, part lion, part eagle, part horse?" Erica imitated Stiles with a snort, and Allison looked like she was contemplating strangulation. Whether of herself or Stiles, Derek was unsure.

"We know what griffins are, Stiles. We've all see Prisoner of Azkaban, even if their take on werewolves is ridiculously archaic and hunter-ish." It spoke a lot about Allison's development as a person that she didn't immediately shoot an arrow into Erica's eye.

Stiles shrugged. "Hey don't get all judgey on me, dude. I don't know what you all got up to in the year I was gone." The room went awkwardly silent once more, before Lydia's heartfelt and exasperated groan.

"They want to know if griffins are real, Stiles." Stiles blinked suddenly as if the concept of them not being aware of griffins' existence was truly inconceivable.

"Oh!" He exclaimed, and then it slid into a smirk as the mage shifted around until he could lean comfortably against the back of the couch.

"Of course they're real. I mean, they were almost hunted to extinction in the 40's and as far as I've been informed there were only around 50 of them left by the turn of the century- which is part of the reason why they haven't been discovered yet. A friend of mine up north was the one who put the concealment spell on them so their population could rebuild, and thankfully their numbers have increased. I think they're in the low hundreds now. You ever seen a griffin up close? They're pretty awesome, I have to admit."

Everyone pondered this information in their own heads slowly. "So what else is real?" Scott spoke for the first time since breakfast, and Stiles replied amicably enough, even if his tone was a little more cold than it had been towards the others.

Derek could understand why- to Stiles, Scott must have betrayed countless years of friendship in one foul swoop.

"Well, from the top of my head, there are kelpies, wyverns, will-o'-the-wisps, unicorns, mermaids, dragons, centaurs, nymphs, selkies, fauns, elves, mages, pixies, faeries, vampires, demons and, obviously, werewolves. You name it, it existed somewhere, at sometime, in some plane. Where do you think all the myths and legends come from? Humans aren't that creative."

There was a beat or two of complete, shocked silence. "Holy fuck." Scott looked as surprised as everyone else that he had spoken. Stiles laughed suddenly.

"Angels are a no-show, unfortunately." He had a small, secretive smile on as he said it, and Derek found himself doubting his words, which was probably exactly what Stiles wanted in the first place. Stupid genius teenagers. And, yes, Derek was fully aware that that was an oxymoron but he said it anyway because he's a stubborn bastard at the best of times.

And Stiles was brilliant at manipulation. It was why they often butted heads.

Well, no, they often butted heads because Derek had a hard on for the underage, son-of-the-sheriff, best friend of the new werewolf, sarcastic, bitchy and spastic human known as Stiles that he didn't want to admit to. Refused to admit to, actually, until said spastic teenager was no longer around and there was a gaping hole in his chest and the desire to shift into his beta form at the slightest trigger.

Derek was never the best at being honest when it came to emotions. Neither was Stiles. In that way they had always been horribly alike.

Scott stood up from his place beside Allison to make his way to the bathroom, and Derek watched as the space he had previously occupied became filled once more, the pack and Stiles' bodies moulding to cover the gap. Derek from his place on the far couch was reluctantly impressed.

"So what are the other creatures like?" Erica asked suddenly, legs moved to rest in Boyd's lap and head between Stiles' shoulder and the couch. She sounded idly curious, as if it was clear no other creature was as interesting as wolves by virtue of skill alone. Derek, having grown up aware of many of the other creatures out there in the wide world, was not so sure, but he wasn't about to be the one to tell his Beta that. He'd leave that particular job to the expert in the room.

Cowardly? Maybe. But he was more likely to live another day and that counted as a job well done in his book.

Stiles just shook his head. "That's like asking what werewolves are like. Some are assholes, some are awesome, some are my friends. And I don't know them all, so I can't exactly make judgements on an entire species just from my own personal and biased experience with them. Having said that, avoid wyverns. You see one, you run as fast as you fucking can in the opposite direction, because they're downright murderous. The first time I met one I was-"

"Stiles?" Scott walked back into the living room, expression closed off and worried, and trailing behind him was the much too familiar and common scents of iron and blood. Derek flinched, but it didn't smell like his Beta's. It smelled like... magic. He held up a single bronze bullet between his thumb and fore-finger, and his eyes looked vaguely pained but incredibly determined.

Stiles didn't look up, too absorbed in telling the story- Derek wasn't paying attention, but he had heard something about wings, and claws, and getting slammed into the side of a cliff. He made a mental note to heed Stiles' advice and avoid wyverns in the future.

"What's up, dude?" Stiles' voice was carefully relaxed and controlled, and Derek had the urge to hurry Scott out of the room before the mage looked up, to prevent Stiles from ever seeing whatever it was that Scott held.

But, before Derek could move, Stiles glanced up. His eyes focused first on Scott's face, and he had obviously heard the stiff edge when the Beta spoke if his bewildered interest was any indication. The room felt tense- all the werewolves could feel that tingling, creeping sensation dragging almost painfully across their skin, and smell the iron-rich scent that spoke of death and fire. It was as if they were all waiting for Stiles to notice, for his reaction.

Then Stiles' hazel, amber, golden, _bright_ and _magic_ eyes flicked to the bullet Scott clasped. Recognition dawned in his face, and the room went 30° colder.

Stiles' face shut down. "Where did you get that?" Derek shivered at the slow, toneless question, layered with demand and venom and something else Derek couldn't quite name but sounded way too much like terror for the Alpha's comfort.

Scott's jaw clenched- whether at the question or the tone or the bullet itself Derek had no idea. "It was lying on the bathroom floor. It's covered in blood, Stiles." Scott took a deep breath in, seemingly to brace himself, before releasing it out in one long exhale. His eyes were hard with concern.

"The bullet is covered in your blood, Stiles. Why is there a bullet coated in _your_ blood sitting in my _hand_?"

Stiles stood up slowly, ignoring Erica's small yowl at being misplaced and Lydia's huff of displeasure and took a step towards the Beta, eyes fixated on the bronze orb. Scott was holding it as far from his body as possible, but in a way that made the move seem unintended, unconscious. Derek could smell his unease from the couch.

Stiles swallowed thickly, and his smile was uneasy, but Derek could just about see a suddenly calculating gleam in the mage's eyes. That was the only thing he could call it. Stiles' face had taken on a peculiar sort of _plotting_ expression- and not in an obvious way.

Derek was sure most people wouldn't have seen it- the slightest raise in one eyebrow, the tilt of his lips, the way his eyes tightened infinitesimally. The sight of a planning Stiles made Derek uncomfortably aware that he didn't know half the things Stiles _could_ do, let alone what the mage had already done.

The thought of finding out- of _intimacy_ , that thing both he and Stiles avoided- shouldn't have been as tempting as it was to the Alpha. And it most definitely shouldn't have made his wolf sit up and pay attention. Great. So apparently intimacy kink was a thing.

Fuck his life.

Seriously. Fuck. His. Life.

Stiles swished a hand in the air, and Derek watched carefully as thin fibres began weaving themselves together to from a small pouch. He held it out to Scott, gesturing for the Beta to drop the bullet into the scarlet bag, which the teen did willingly.

Scott kept his eyes glued to Stiles' form, and his eyes were accusatory, blaming, guilty and anxious all at once. Stiles only grinned at him, muscles in his jaw tense, and one hand clenched into a fist by his side.

The mage rolled his eyes. "So what? I got shot going after some hunters, but I got the bullet out. I must have forgot it in the bathroom. No big deal, guys, I've had worse."

Scott spluttered, and Derek saw Lydia frown at the dark bag that hung jauntily from Stiles' wrist. Her eyes widened suddenly, and Derek could only see a blur as she leapt off the couch to stand in front of the mage.

Her hand whipped forward, and Stiles' neck cracked with the force of her slap. Before any of the wolves could even react- or think about reacting- Lydia's arms were thrown around Stiles' shoulders and her fists pressed like stones into his back, and her words were undecipherable as she muttered them into Stiles' leather jacket.

Lydia pulled back a little, and gripped Stiles' chin and jaw in her hand. "You complete and utter idiot. God, you're such an asshole." She hugged him again, and there were tiny tears clinging to her lashes when she pulled back. When she spoke, her voice cracked, "I don't know how the hell you're alive, and someday soon you're gonna tell me the whole goddamn story, but _fuck_ am I glad that you managed to do the impossible again."

Stile looked apologetic- but Derek figured anyone would be in the face of Lydia Martin's fury and worry. And that was before she became a banshee. "It's no big deal, Lyds."

Lydia had switched back from concern to apoplectic rage- and Derek wasn't sure who was scarier, Stiles or Lydia, but his money was on Lydia because Stiles didn't wear stilettos tall enough to skewer a person with one well aimed kick.

At least, Derek didn't think he did. Again, horizons, expanded, yada yada and New York was a crazy place even without throwing magic and teenage hormones into the mix. His wolf growled. Possessive, sanctimonious bastard.

" **No big deal?** That _bullet_ could have _killed_ you, Stiles. You know that."

Stiles tilted his head, and his eyebrows furrowed on his brow. "It didn't, Lydia. I'm alive. I'm fine. The bullet only grazed me."

"Don't lie to me, jerk." The red-head mumbled into the mage's neck, and Stiles just nodded semi-stiffly into her hair in lieu of a response.

Scott was still standing awkwardly beside them. "What did she mean, it could have killed you? I thought you had your shields up, or whatever."

Stiles released Lydia, who, although she glared at him, went to sit back down on the couch, and Derek didn't envy Stiles the dressing down he would no doubt receive later. The mage laughed- the sound forced and pained and bittersweet-, and Derek thought privately that if he rolled his eyes any harder he would get them stuck.

Was that a parent thing to think? God, Derek hoped not.

"It's not Star Trek, Scotty. And yeah, the bullet could have killed me, but it didn't."

No one spoke for a few seconds, until Boyd flicked his eyes resolutely over to the mage's tall form. "Was that from the evening you told us about the demon?"

Derek flinched, because _fuck_ , that made an awful amount of sense. The shaking hands, the smoking, the too-tense, too-cheerful, too- _everything_ expression. The cryptic comments.

Stiles clapped his hands sarcastically, before forming his hands into little guns and making teeny _pew_ noises. "A-star, Boyd. Your deduction skills are top-notch. You could make a career out of it." The sarcasm was biting and heavy, and it made the mage seem even less approachable than usual, which was most likely Stiles' intention.

The teenager sighed once, loudly and wearily, and his eyes were too old for his body where they glittered underneath his long lashes. He shrugged, hands spreading out in a gesture of helplessness to his sides, and Derek could practically see the veil drop down between them and Stiles- the way his posture went formal and loose and too bloody _relaxed_ when Derek knew that was the very opposite of what Stiles truly felt.

"Look, getting shot is part of the job. If I die, I die. Nothing anybody can do to stop it, what with fate, and destiny, and all that crap. I'm not going to live forever. And keeping me in a locked box just makes me want to break it down. Now, if you excuse me, I have business to attend to concerning, oh, I don't know, the _fate of the world_."

The pack remained quiet, lost in thought and in the lingering scent of the mage's blood that filled their noses like hot oil, and Stiles made a motion with his hands to Lydia too quick for even Derek to see.

The blood-red bag containing the bullet dripping with Stiles' blood still hung innocuously and innocently from the mage's right wrist- and Derek wanted nothing more than to rip it away, tear it, burn it, destroy it and dismember it until nothing remained- not a shred of fabric nor shard of metal, not the blood, or the magic, or the danger Derek knew lay within the soft folds of cloth.

And the worst thing was he would never be able to do it.

He hadn't moved from his place on the couch in what felt like hours, and Stiles was a metre away from walking out the door, and Scott had sat back down beside his girlfriend as if nothing had happened- except for the way all their eyes tracked the mage's movements, and the air was still weighed down with the scents of a thousand and one emotions none of them could name, let alone control.

Stiles suddenly released a startled cry, falling to one knee with both of his hands cradling his head before anyone could consider movement, and the tall lamp beside the doorway cracked before going out. The air _hummed_ , the room stank of ozone and worry and _blood_ , and Stiles' hands were still clasped to his ears as if bells were ringing inside his skull.

Lydia darted like lightning towards the fallen mage- the Betas had made aborted movements as if to rise before being cut off by the blur of pale skin and scarlet hair that was their banshee-, and she skidded to her knees on the floor beside Stiles like a baseball player sliding into home.

Stiles still didn't move, but Derek could see the way his eyes were scrunched tight and the sharp crescents of his nails drive jagged cuts into his skull.

Eyes snapping open in a burst of golden light that cleared the mage's face of all lingering traces of pain, Stiles jolted unsteadily to his feet and swayed, shaking his head as if to try and persuade the room to stop spinning.

Like a man possessed, he ignored them all in their positions throughout the room and stumbled to the doorway, hands grabbing at the wooden panels in what appeared to be a vague attempt to keep himself upright- Derek couldn't be sure, but he was pretty sure Stiles was going to fall over if he strayed too far from the support the solid walls offered.

The small bag caught on the rim of Stiles' sleeve, and the mage snarled- _snarled_ , and that really shouldn't have been attractive, it _shouldn't have_ , but apparently Derek was bloody cursed or something-, and the bullet in its soft luxury disappeared with as little fanfare as the bag had arrived- a low _puff_ of sound as Stiles shoved himself further to his feet and forced co-operation from his weary body.

Lydia rose from the floor, and her dark eyes bore into Stiles', and their conversation was only between them in the way Derek could only admire and envy in the silence.

Stiles' voice, when he spoke, was gritty and tired and overwhelmed and sounded as if it dragged against the skin of his throat on every syllable- almost like speaking was more pain than it was worth-, and the message it carried made Derek's wolf bay for blood.

It also terrified him, but, hey, Stiles was scary enough without his eyes glowing, or his face tight, or an aura of danger and violence emanating from him as much as the smell of his eagerness for a fight was.

Okay, Stiles was definitely the scarier of the two. Don't tell Lydia Derek said that, because he happened to like having his head attached to his body.

"We've got company."

...

They waited in the forest, with a sort of weary impatience masquerading itself as calm. It was quiet. At the risk of sounding like a cliché, _too_ quiet. Derek settled himself back onto his heels, allowing his arms to fall loose and pliant to his sides.

He wasn't entirely sure what they were doing here. He only knew that Stiles had, _somehow_ sensed an intrusion onto pack land, and, after a brief stop at the mage's house where he spent a good ten minutes disabling wards and barriers and spells to get at something in his room (from all the fuss Derek had kinda hoped it was going to be something deadly they could use- a spell, or spelled object, or missile launcher or _something_ , so he had been mildly disappointed when all Stiles appeared with was a plain black box about the length of his arm), Stiles had transported them all to some random clearing in the preserve.

Apart from the preliminary instructions ("Wait for my signal, they'll be here soon.") Stiles hadn't spoken a word since, and it made Derek... _uneasy_. Not at all like he missed the sound of the teenager's voice, because that would be stupid. And pathetic. And stupidly pathetic.

(And maybe true, but Derek would never admit it).

The smallest twitch in a nearby bush was all the warning they received before the first enemy descended, a strange man with deep, bottomless black eyes who's lips were curved into a cruel smirk.

He twitched, and Scott slammed into a tree on the outskirts of the clearing, collapsing into a heap at the roots the next second.

Derek growled menacingly, but the stranger's eyes had only just turned to him when he gasped, eyes wide, and looked down to see the tip of a long elegant sword driven straight through where his heart should have been.

The blade twisted, and the man was dead before his body hit the ground. Behind the unmoving corpse, Stiles made a face as he wiped his sword against the ground, but his eyes glowed with a fire so sharp Derek thought he might be burned up and reduced to naught but ashes.

The sword danced between Stiles' fingers like an extension of his arm, and Derek could trace the sigils and symbols up along its centre with his eyes even as it danced in the dusky sunset painted night.

"One down." Stiles remarked casually, and Derek felt a pang of regret for his actions that led to the eighteen year old standing in front of him to be so familiar with death- his own, and others'.

"How many are there?" Out of breath from his brief flying adventure, Scott stood a hair's throw from Allison, Erica, Isaac and Boyd, the hunter's hand steady on his arm from where she'd helped him up.

Stiles shrugged, but Derek noticed that his usual hostility towards Scott had toned down considerably.

"No idea." The cheerfulness in his voice was akin to watching a psychopath grin- alarming and sending warning trills up and down the spine- but Stiles just moved the black case, now empty, over and out of the way, and Derek remembered hoping for a weapon and thought, _oh_.

"Won't be that much, this here is just the scouting party. The real deal will come later, I'd say within days. This is more of a training session than anything else." Stiles continued, except suddenly there was a flash and a **thud** , and another body hit the ground at Derek's feet from where she had been hidden in the foliage above them waiting to strike. There was a sizzling hole about one inch in diameter burned into the space just above the bridge of her nose, and Derek could see the vibrant green grass through the other side of her skull.

"Demons?" Derek asked, because he had heard of a lot of things in his long life as a werewolf but a creature with black eyes had never been one of them. Stiles nodded, and the sword at his side shimmered- Derek blinked and resisted the urge to rub his eyes- until it roughly resembled a wooden baseball bat, its handle smooth and fitted perfectly for Stiles' hand.

"Yep. Lucky for you lot they're just the lower level sons of bitches. I'm curious how you fare against them, I mean, during the real deal most, if not all, of my energies will be focused on preventing the bigger demons from wiping Beacon Hills off the map."

Lydia- with her arms folded and face set in a small grimace- let out a weak snort, and Stiles shot her an amused glance.

The conversation was interrupted by the arrival of three more demons; One with shoulder length scarlet curls and a malicious smirk, the other two with matching spikes of dirty blonde hair and tattered suits.

They slid to a halt on the grass, their dark empty gazes passing over the wolves, and the hunter, and the banshee, to settle on Stiles, and when they did their lips curled into harsh smirks that were tempered with a wild dose of fear.

Yep. Stiles was definitely the scariest among them all.

The mage twirled the bat until it rested over both his shoulders- his arms slung over it and hip cocked at a jaunty angle as he grinned with eyes the colour of honey- and gestured with one finger towards the waiting demons.

"You gonna stand there all day? Or are you going to come and die?" And fuck, Stiles sounded almost _sympathetic_ , and his eyes were wide and innocent and friendly even as the dead bodies of two of their comrades lay eagle spread behind him.

He sounded _experienced_.

The taller of the two male demons flexed his fists, and Derek's breath was knocked out of him as the pack were shoved backwards across the clearing until their backs were pressed against hard bark- unable to move, or intervene as the trio surrounded Stiles.

Stiles was unafraid, even as the demons formed a loose triangle with him as the centre, and his arms remained draped casually over the smooth wood laying across his shoulders.

Derek swore inwardly and clenched his muscles, the tendons in his arms and legs straining to move from the tree he was forced against to no avail. He thumped his head back dejectedly, and from his peripheral vision he saw his pack mates try and follow his example before failing.

Stiles stood still, and the leaves in the tree tops above them swayed once, twice, thrice before a particularly harsh gust of wind that made Derek's eyes sting and the few loose leaves that littered the ground flutter into the mage before being carried off once more.

The demons glanced at each other, and charged at Stiles in unison. A yell of warning got caught on Derek's tongue, but he needn't have bothered. Stiles knew _exactly_ what they were doing.

The smaller male reached Stiles first, and the mage swung around with eyes aflame, his movements like liquid and spilled oil as he slammed the bat into the demon's stomach, clasped the back of his neck, and _twisted_. The resounding crack of his neck breaking could be heard even without enhanced hearing, and Stiles shoved the body away from him in disgust just as the female demon leapt at his throat.

With her hands locked and restricting both his breath and the blood flow to his brain, Stiles was in no position to fight and Derek struggled all the more, desperation a constant thrum in every failed attempt at movement.

Until, that was, Stiles reached behind himself and ran the clinging demon through with the sword that he had somehow managed to manoeuvre into a position he could use. The demon made a brittle choking sound before releasing Stiles, who turned on his heel in time to jab the sword through her chest and into the ground below. Small rivulets of black blood ran from the side of her mouth, and Stiles grinned savagely as he pushed down harder on the sword until its hilt was jammed right up to the demon's ribs.

There was a movement behind Stiles- who lay atop his sword, separated from the demon by mere centimetres and close enough a stranger might consider them some type of twisted lovers were it not for the metal brand speared through the woman's heart- and Derek had only time to gurgle a warning before the tallest demon attacked.

He tackled Stiles to the ground, the silver dagger in his hand shining much too bright in the half moonlight- the sun having disappeared without Derek's notice-, too bright to be completely natural. They rolled around on the ground, and damp leaves clung to the fabric of their clothes and angry snarls emphasised every punch and jab and kick, and Derek could catch only snippets.

The demon, both hands pressing down on the dagger and Stiles, face set with determination, gripping the blade tight between both fists even as the smell of his blood filled the clearing. The wrench of Stiles' arms as he elbowed the demon in the throat and used his distraction to fling the dagger away.

The even, predatory way these two otherworldly beings circled each other, centre of gravity low and hands dipping to caress the grass as if it were a tool to be used, even as Stiles looked so dangerously ecstatic and _happy_ whilst the demon's frustration only grew with every aborted movement and blocked punch.

Finally, he growled low in the depths of his stomach and ran at Stiles, fancier weapons forgotten in favour of using his own hands. Gracefully and easily Stiles side-stepped his attacker, and, in the time it took Derek to inhale in relief, flipped the demon's dagger from where it had been hidden under his jacket in order to drive it through the demon's hand and into the ground- reminiscent of what he had done earlier to the other one.

The demon howled in pain, and his other hand reached across to yank the blade from his arm in vain. Stiles stood up, ignored his own harsh breathing, and stepped in small precise steps over to the female- dead- demon. He pulled his long, glinting sword from her chest, and her body slid down the silver metal so easily Derek knew it had to involve magic.

Stiles walked back over to the last demon, who was struggling for freedom like an animal caught in a trap, and who raised black, emotionless eyes to Stiles in terror as the mage stood above him, sword still dripping with the blood of the last.

Stiles' eyes glowed like stars and his lips were curved into a smile, and he lifted the sword high over his head before slamming it down on the demon's neck with all the finality of an executioner.

The weight holding them in place disappeared, and Derek collapsed forward to the ground only to catch himself at the last moment with one hand. He raised his head warily, and there Stiles stood, with one arm at an uneven angle to his body, the other clasped tight around the hilt of a silver sword dripping black blood to the grass, eyes bright, clothes grass stained and covered in blood and dirt, hair all tussled and messy, three dead demons not even a stone's throw from his black biker boots, and the biggest smile Derek had yet to see him wear gracing his face.

"Well." The teenager said, leaning down to wipe his sword in the grass, flecks of blood adorning his cheeks and forehead like freckles, "That was cathartic."

It was possibly the most attractive Stiles had ever been.

Lydia grumbled as she hauled herself to her feet. "You were just showing off, Stiles. You didn't even use magic."

Stiles just laughed, head flung back, and when he settled again his eyes were sparkling, and it almost looked as if he were ignorant of the blood and the grime and the dead bodies.

But he wasn't. He _really_ wasn't.

And as Derek watched Stiles straighten, the tip of his sword just dragging in the blades of grass, standing before them unrepentant and unashamed, like some fucking avenging angel or fearless warrior or minor _god_ , he thought privately that he was wrong.

This was definitely the most attractive Stiles had ever been.

And it was _so_ messed up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys. GUYS. There are over 1000 kudos on this story!!!!!! *undecipherable squeals of glee*
> 
> But honestly, I don't even have the words for how much that amazes me. The reception to this story has been utterly wonderful, so I want to thank each and every one of you for reading, commenting, giving kudos, subscribing or spreading the word.
> 
> Seriously. Thank you.
> 
> Okay, for warnings (where the hell do I begin???)  
> Uhh, fighting.  
> Demons.  
> Blood.  
> Someone might get stabbed. Once or twice. (And maybe more than one person)  
>  _Feelings_.  
>  Derek's inappropriate boner.  
> Intimacy kink! (Is that a thing? Screw it, I'm saying it is)  
> Griffins.  
> Coffee.  
> The pack really like Stiles and Derek does too (And, yes, that is deserving of a warning)  
> Kinda non-graphic talk of getting shot.  
> Stiles talks about dying.  
> Emotionally repressed everyone, except Jackson, ironically.  
> Magic mage blood (which is a lot more surprising than it has any right to be)
> 
> So that's all, me thinks! If I missed anything blatantly obvious drop a comment and I'll fix it, and, hell, just drop a comment for the hell of it. I'd love to hear from you! :D
> 
> As always, I don't have the pleasure of a Beta unless you count Windows, and I do not own Teen Wolf or any of the characters except using them for my own twisted enjoyment.
> 
> Hope you like the latest chapter (hope the latest chapter makes sense) and new one will be up (eventually, I'm sorry, I'm terrible at keeping it updated. Forgive me?).
> 
> Good news and bad news, this story will be wrapped up within three more chapters! (I just totally jinxed myself, didn't I? Sigh)
> 
> So thank you all again, hugs and kisses to all, peace out and enjoy life!
> 
> H.S.F.
> 
> P.S. The Deadpool movie. Need I say more?
> 
> P.P.S. Okay, it turns out I do for my own peace of mind. If you haven't seen the complete _genius_ that is Ryan Reynold's new Deadpool film, go see it right now. Immediately. I'm not joking. It's funny, it's dirty, it completely _wipes the fourth wall from existence_ , it's packed full of enough action to sate even the most bloodthirsty of fans and, best of all, it makes me forget Deadpool (or Fox's jacked up imitation) was ever in Wolverine Origins. Hell, it makes me forget there ever was a Wolverine Origins. Yeah. It's that good. Don't believe me? **Go see the Deadpool movie**.


	15. Derek, I'm sorry. For everything shitty that's happened to you in your life, I'm sorry. Why? Because I don't think anyone's ever said that to you before, and I think somebody should.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The pack play 'Never have I ever', Stiles and Derek deal with their UST, and that complicates things, and yes, in that order.

Stiles had a problem. Hell, Stiles had a ton of problems, but the one he was currently fixated on was tall, dark and brooding. And so stupidly attractive he sort of wanted to claw his own eyes out.

Fucking Derek.

Well, not literally (unfortunately), no matter how hard his libido raged and pushed all the blood in his body to the most awkward place it could. Stiles shifted on the couch, and resisted the urge to bang his head repeatedly against the wall, because, well, that never helped anyone, did it? Might knock the dirty, r-rated images out of his head.

Oh, who he was kidding? Those images weren't going anywhere. Fucking Derek and his stupid fucking face.

Fuck, Stiles never cursed this much. He blamed New York. When in doubt, blame the people who couldn't defend themselves. A-fucking-plus work there, Stiles. Really fucking mature.

....fuck.

"So do you do that sort of thing often?" Stiles raised his head to focus on Scott, who's hands were wrapped around Allison's like she was the last life-raft on the Titanic. Stiles was just tipsy enough on magic, coffee and the whiskey he had been downing for the last 20 minutes for him to acknowledge how much he envied them both. They'd had their ups and downs (heh, understatement), but hey, at the end of the day they were still together and reasonably sane. It was more than Stiles had ever gotten.

"What?" He asked, because he had no idea what the question was and it might have been a good idea to sober up just a little bit, but then he caught Derek's eyes (for _fuck's_ sake, libido) from across the room where the Alpha sat talking to Erica and Boyd, and he took another swallow of the bitter alcohol even as it burned his throat and his vision blurred at the edges.

If he could die from alcohol poisoning he would probably have been concerned. Instead, he just took another swig.

Scott gestured with one hand into the air, but didn't repeat the question, and Stiles wasn't sure if that meant Scott didn't know the question himself or if the hand-waving-thing was supposed to _be_ the question.

Regardless, the mage didn't have an answer. Stiles shrugged and looked helplessly at Allison for a translation. Were Lydia and Jackson not in the kitchen (if he focused he could hear their low murmuring voices and the sound of kissing but he didn't because _ewww_ ) he probably would have looked to her, but Allison most likely had more of a chance of deciphering the incoherent Scott-speak. After all, she had more incentive to learn.

Allison smiled softly and translated, "He means do you have fights like the one earlier very often?"

Stiles was pretty impressed with the ease with which she knew immediately what the Beta meant, but the admiration was layered thickly with the knowledge that not even two years ago he wouldn't have needed the help.

Stiles just shrugged again in response, and his head ached a little with exhaustion. He was running on no more than six hours sleep in the last week, and, for him, that was almost _good_. Fuck, that was _great_. He hadn't slept that much since New Jersey and the kelpie, and since most people didn't count unconsciousness as sleep it had probably been even before that.

"I guess so. I mean, the way it ends depends on what I'm fighting, but most of them follow the same sort of monotonous pattern. I show up, there's some form of banter or insults, we fight, I win, I leave. It's pretty simple, really. And the most dependable thing in my life to date."

Stiles hated the sympathetic and piteous expression gracing the huntress' face. To change the direction of the conversation, he stood up brusquely and downed the last remnants of his drink, letting the glass fall with a _ting_ to the table beneath his hand.

"All right everyone!" He amplified his voice, even though he knew it was superfluous when there were more wolves than humans present. It helped add an air of command to his words. "Grab a seat and a glass. We're playing a drinking game. No but's, no if's, and absolutely no talk of demons. This is distraction, plain and simple, and I will personally inebriate anyone who remains halfway sober at the end of this evening."

This was a terrible, terrible, _awful_ idea. He was so going to regret this in the morning, he just _knew_ it.

Lydia walked in from the kitchen, one hand clasped around Jackson's and the other around the neck of a fancy, rich wine Stiles had received from one of his more _colourful_ excursions, and she sat down on the couch with her two feet crossed beneath her before she lowered the bottle to the coffee table.

The pack settled themselves on the couches easily, except for one awkward moment when it looked as if Derek was going to have to sit beside Stiles. The mage was saved, however, by Lydia gesturing him to take a seat at her left, on the far end of the couch.

If Derek noticed it, he didn't mention it, a fact for which Stiles was immeasurably grateful. He didn't want to have to explain how much it hurt to have to talk to Derek- not when he was inebriated and uninhibited enough to actually _feel_ the emotions he'd been repressing for months concerning the Alpha.

Anger he could handle. Lust, desire, they were things Stiles was used to. He wasn't sure what to call the thing he felt for Derek, but he was much too terrified to even attempt it.

Why risk rejection after all?

"So what's the game?" Erica asked, suitably unimpressed with it all, eyeing the bottles on the table like they held the secrets to all of life's mysteries. Stiles could not honestly disagree with that. Not without being the most hypocritical hypocrite to ever hypocrite.

Huh.

He should probably stop drinking.

Stiles glanced up, saw Derek, and poured himself another glass. He deserved it.

Shooting a sly glance towards Lydia, Stiles decided to be a masochist and recommend the one game that would guarantee he get smashed. Because why not? It wasn't like he was trying to not be obvious about how stupidly in lov-lust he was with Derek or anything.

Smooth, Stiles. Real fucking smooth.

God, he needed another drink.

"We're going to play 'Never Have I Ever'. 'm gonna go right ahead and assume you've all played before?"

Nods and affirmations all around; Great. Stiles needed a shovel to move all the dirt away from the hole he just dug for himself.

"Glasses on the table!" He ordered, and the amber liquid splashed and stained the wood as he poured it down the line of glasses- most of it captured where he wanted it to go but a fair amount poured down the sides of their drinks and onto the table.

"Who's going first?" Stiles asked, and the only reason his words weren't all slurred to hell was because he had lots of practice getting shit-faced and a ridiculously high metabolism. It helped that at this point his blood was probably around 70% caffeine and 20% magic (or was it 70% magic and 20% caffeine?).

Lydia would kill him if she knew.

Hence the distraction.

Stiles wanted to laugh at the complete lack of eager volunteers, but he felt that it might be rude to do so- Human, or werewolf, as the case may be, interaction was something he had never been particularly good at; and that was before his attitude terrified and aroused most everyone in equal measure.

Funnily enough, the two were not always exclusive for him. Case in point, one sexy Alpha sourwolf with a penchant for shoving Stiles into walls and threatening to rip his throat out. Stiles had always wanted what he could never have.

Call it a fatal flaw.

"Fine, since there's such an abundance of choice, I guess I'll have to go first." Stiles smirked- he was at least going to try and get everyone as drunk as him. "Never have I ever been a werewolf."

Lydia snorted, one hand smothering the sound as Erica, Boyd, Isaac, Scott, Derek and Jackson all drank, matching prissy expressions on their faces. Stiles refilled their glasses with glee, and if anyone noticed the fact that his arm was completely healed they were intelligent enough to figure it out for themselves and not bother him with stupid questions.

Boyd went next, and his gaze was _way_ too steady for someone who'd supposedly been drinking all evening, and god- _fucking_ -dammit Stiles _knew_ he should've gotten the wolfsbane laced tequila out rather than the wine.

Stupid werewolves and their stupid, annoying alcohol resistance and stupid Derek and his irksome attractiveness.

Stiles regretted everything.

Boyd tapped the rim of his glass thoughtfully, and the rhythm seared into Stiles' brain, as if Boyd was mapping out the beats of his heart. "Never have I ever used magic." The teen declared finally, and Stiles didn't bother with a dirty look- he just reached forward and downed his glass, watching from the corner of his eye as Lydia imitated his movements. She winched lightly as she drank and Stiles shot her a shit-eating grin.

The banshee just rolled her eyes in response.

At the far end of the couch Derek also drank, and his only answer to the questioning, curious and borderline accusing stares was a half-hearted, uncomfortable shrug. Jackson opened his mouth, and it probably would have been something rude or offensive or even _mean_ (come on, this was Jackson they were talking about) so Stiles quickly cut him up before any words escaped the ex-kanima's lips.

"Erica, you're up." He might not like Derek all that much (though his dick would disagree), but it was ridiculously clear that Derek didn't want to talk about magic and hell, Stiles had more than his fair share of topics he refused to talk about. They all had something.

Perks of being supernatural.

Stiles tried to pretend he didn't see the small grateful glance Derek sent Stiles' way (he probably hadn't even realised he had reacted at all), or the suspicious one-eyebrow-raise that made Lydia so terrifying.

Stiles was very good at denial. Ask anyone.

Erica smiled toothily, and she looked like a siren planning her next kill- a description so apt it was downright _poetic_ (Beat that, Shakespeare. Stiles' life was more tragic than _Romeo and Juliet_ had ever been- and Hamlet had _nothing_ on him).

"Never have I ever played lacrosse." All the guys drank, as did Lydia and Allison. Erica looked mildly put out for a moment. "Does this mean I'm the only one here who's never played the game?"

Everyone just shrugged, and Erica laughed, looking peculiarly proud of herself. Stiles shook his head, long since given up trying to understand how people's brains work. He'd seen too many of them in his line of work to ever have an interest in worrying about them in his downtime (the little that he permitted himself).

His was all screwed to hell anyway- it'd make little sense for Stiles to start giving advice on other people's minds when his own was such chaos.

Not that anything he did ever made much sense.

Case in point- his _stupid, infuriating, masochistic **crush**_ on Derek. Which he didn't talk about. Ever.

Fuck his life.

Just- fuck it. He was too drunk and not drunk enough and much too damn _horny_.

Isaac grinned at Derek suddenly, like there were a hundred inside jokes bouncing around his skull, and Stiles felt a bitter twinge of jealousy- which he adamantly crushed, because Derek was not _his_. He just _wasn't_.

"Never have I ever finished high school." Isaac laughed when Derek took a shot, throat bared temptingly, skin pulled taunt across the alpha's Adam's apple, and Stiles wanted to _bite_ and _suck_.

 _Fuck_.

To distract himself, the teenage mage downed his shot, and he barely winced at the burn- but the startled glances that fell his way when he slammed his glass back down on the table made him wish he could have been _ridiculously_ smashed for this conversation.

Or, preferably, every conversation he had to have with the pack for the foreseeable future.

Just to cover all his bases. Couldn't be too careful.

"You're finished high school?" Allison asked, eyes widened just a small amount, and the only one who didn't seem even a little surprised was Lydia- who was as poised and elegant as ever in a pair of ratty sweatpants and one of Stiles' old hoodies. Stiles liked all the different facets of Lydia's personality- witty and sensitive teenager, genius and nerdy student, loyal and dedicated best friend, terrifying and in control warrior, and even fashionable and graceful queen (because let's be honest, there was no way she was settling for mere princess).

But he liked the current one the best. Liked the way she could get him to laugh like no one else and find humour in the strangest of circumstances. Liked how she could be strangely overprotective, and didn't mind when he was either.

He just liked her. It wasn't a friendship he'd anticipated, but it was one he felt honoured to ever have a chance to experience.

Having said that, there were times-like, _now_ , that all he really wanted was to strangle her.

"Oh sure!" Lydia exclaimed, and Stiles felt the beginnings of nausea stir in his stomach at the glint in her eye. "Stiles finished high school ages ago. He did a lot of incredible things while he was away. Did you know he can legally fly a plane now? And that he's the world's leading advisor on the supernatural world? He has a website and everything. Has saved thousands upon thousands of lives. But you guys wouldn't know anything about that, since you kicked him out and all."

Forget a knife, you would've needed a machete to carve through the sudden tension in the air.

"Lydia," He said softly, and his best friend deflated.

She smiled at him wryly. "Like you'd act any different if it'd been me." Stiles' lips curved into half a smile, and he didn't refute her statement.

"Friends, remember?" He tried to sound more optimistic than he did, but Lydia seemed to get the message loud and clear.

"I'll try." Was all the reply he got, but hell, that was still more than he expected. He'd take what he could get in situations like this.

No one seemed sure how to break the silence after that, and Stiles just wanted someone to do _something_. Talk, sing, tell an embarrassing story. _Anything_.

Through some _miracle_ (though Stiles didn't believe in a god after all he'd seen and done), Scott- awkward, uncomfortable Stiles-might-have-to-kiss-after-in-a-totally-platonic-way Scott- spoke up, and the game started again.

"Never have I ever stolen something."

Fuck kissing Scott. Stiles was going to _kill_ him. _That sneaky rotten bastard...._ Stiles thought, but he was oddly impressed.

To keep up appearances, he glared at Scott, but the beta only smirked. He kept up the glare even as he lifted the glass to his lips.

Allison looked between them with confusion, and Stiles dropped the glass down to point one menacing finger at her boyfriend. "Don't you dare." He threatened, voice low, and Scott snorted loudly.

Allison looked vaguely amused at the beta's reaction, and she shook her head slowly, still smiling. "Actually you know what? I don't want to know."

Lydia laughed, and drank. Derek swallowed his shot, and Stiles watched, amused, as he was followed quickly by Isaac, Erica, Danny, Jackson and Allison herself. Scott looked betrayed.

Stiles just laughed, nicely hazed.

"Never have I ever been to a college party." Allison announced, and Stiles and Lydia turned their heads to each other almost simultaneously, grinning at the shared memory.

"Together?" Stiles asked, and Lydia's smile softened until it felt like a treasured inside joke, only for themselves.

"As usual." 

They toasted each other before knocking their heads back, and Stiles allowed himself a bark of laughter at the face Lydia pulled in response to the taste. She shoved his shoulder playfully, and Stiles fell to the side with the momentum, easy grin still stretching the corners of his mouth upwards.

"Asshole." Lydia muttered, but there was no real heat behind it and Stiles felt no shame in batting his eyes at her, bottom lip jutting out in a parody of a pout.

"You love me anyways." He countered, and it wasn't a question. They'd seen the best, worst, silliest, saddest, happiest, biggest and angriest moments of each other. It was impossible to go through what they had without loving the other (and hating them too, but that was something else entirely).

Derek cleared his throat. "Never have I ever been human." He declared gravely, and Erica tilted her head to him as if saying _touché_.

Stiles drank with everyone else, but to be honest he wasn't sure if he should've. He'd always been a spark. Didn't that mean he'd never been human?

Stiles didn't want to think about it. And, with the sort of useful skill that'd saved his life and his sanity too many times to bare thinking of, he pushed the thought- the _concern_ \- deep down inside his chest.

No use dwelling on the past when the future was so uncertain. 

Danny frowned uncertainly, before snapping his fingers and grinning. "Never have I ever been attracted to someone of the opposite gender." _That little shit_ , Stiles thought admiringly, and if Danny were at all his type Stiles would have _no_ problem getting some of _that_. 

Everyone else drank, and Danny looked triumphant. Stiles realised- a little belatedly, he would grudgingly admit, but it wasn't like he hadn't got other things to think about in fairness- that everyone was trying to one-up each other. 

And just like that, his competitive nature kicked in. He was so predictable it hurt sometimes.

"Never have I ever picked a fight with someone twice my size." Jackson said, smirking, and Stiles just sighed.

He had the sneaking suspicion he was going to lose the game. Between being a mage, being best friends with Lydia, fighting supernatural forces like a Winchester and being an eighteen year old horny reasonably attractive bisexual, Stiles had pretty much done it all.

Stiles knocked back another shot, and Erica looked like she wanted to ask but was simultaneously terrified of the answer.

"Never have I ever slept with someone of the same gender." If Stiles had laser beams for eyes, there would be a three inch hole in the side of Lydia's head by now.

Fuck, if Stiles had laser beams for eyes, his problems would be a hell of a lot easier to solve. Just, zap. Enemies killed. World saved.

Although it never did work out that way for Cyclops.

Somehow, and Stiles was not entirely sure how but he supposed a bunch of hormone driven teens would find a way- the game had dissolved entirely into questions pertaining to sex. Really, he should've anticipated it. Between the wolves' curiousity (fuck curiousity killed the cat, Stiles killed the werewolves for getting nosy and poking around in his business) and Lydia's seemingly insatiable need to put him in uncomfortable situations -Friday the 12th of February. That one dare. Stiles was saying no more under pain of death-, the game really had no alternative but to turn into a verbal sex-fest.

Stiles frowned inwardly. That sounded better in his head.

The thing was that Stiles never meant to _hide_ his bisexuality. It just kind of... happened. And he'd forgotten there'd still been people to tell, honestly, since most of New York knew, Lydia knew, his dad knew, his network of people spread around the country either knew first hand or had heard it from him- Stiles wasn't good at keeping secrets that didn't threaten the safety of the known world.

He wasn't the quiet type, never had been, and he'd come on to most of his friends at different points in their relationships. It was just who he was.

Hell, he'd slept with probably half of his friends in New York. Sex was just sex. Fun, sure. A way to spend a few hours, definitely. But it didn't mean more to him than that. It couldn't.

That wasn't to say he couldn't take a hint if someone _wasn't_ interested. He was a staunch believer in 'No means No', and while he'd flirt with anything that had a pulse he'd back off just as quick if the person started getting uncomfortable.

He wasn't in it to ruin anybody else's fun.

But he was getting off topic. The point was; he had forgotten than his sexual preferences were something that needed to be told to other people, too used to introducing himself anew to strangers as who he he wanted to be in different towns and cities, which meant, of course, that he was sitting in a room full of people that assumed he was heterosexual.

 _Awkward_.

 _What the hell_ , Stiles thought, trying to push down the faint traces of nerves that he adamantly did not feel, _No time like the present_.

He reached forward to lift a glass, aware of Danny two people over doing likewise, and he lifted his glass to him in a mock toast, amber liquid sloshing along the sides at the jolting movements.

He drank, ignoring the feeling of eyes on his body, and swore at the taste, eyes watering slightly. "Fuck!" He exclaimed, and Lydia beside him laughed.

He side-eyed her, and squinted with the realisation he'd been played. "You switched the fucking drinks, didn't you?"

Lydia smirked at him, tossing him a swift one-armed salute, and Stiles decided that there was no way he was helping her out with her hangover tomorrow.

Which was, of course, a complete and utter lie.

He ignored that too.

When he raised his eyes, it was just in time to see Derek's shocked face, his hand halfway to his mouth, glass tilted in a way that was going to spill out all the contents if the Alpha wasn't careful...

Glass. Derek.

 _What_.

Stiles opened his mouth- to say what he wasn't sure, but it would have no doubt been high pitched and squeaky and along the lines of "How long have you been interested in guys because I kind of hate you but I'd do you in a fucking _heartbeat_ if you were interested?", and, in hindsight, he was ridiculously glad he had been interrupted because that would have been wildly embarrassing-, but Derek beat him to the punch.

"You like men?" Derek's voice was just on this side of squeaky, and Stiles suppressed a grin.

"Well, sure. I mean technically the term is bisexual, but really I'm just attracted to people, I guess? I'm not sure if that makes me more pansexual, but like, I've slept with people of both genders and some people I don't know that well so I usually just say bisexual because it's more relevant to my actions, you know?" Stiles was rambling, now, he could tell, but Derek was nodding like he did, in fact, know, and that was probably because Derek was _still holding the fucking glass because apparently the Alpha liked **men**_.

As in, people of the male persuasion.

Guys.

 _Dick_.

Stiles took back everything he ever said about this being a terrible game, it was bloody _brilliant_ , because, okay, Stiles didn't _like_ Derek all that much (he would keep telling himself that until it sounded less like a lie or denial in his mind), but hate sex sounded pretty fan-fucking-tastic, pun definitely intended.

Drunk Stiles made terrible life choices.

Sober Stiles was going to kill him. (Sober Stiles could suck it).

The bare skin of Derek's throat was bared temptingly as he swallowed the- what were they drinking, anyway? Stiles had lost track of the different bottles somewhere around the third question.

Wait, what was he thinking about? Right, Derek's throat.

Derek's chest.

Derek's dick.

Derek's smile when the wolf was happy that made Stiles' heart swell in his chest- no.

No, no, no, no and no. Think about dick, Stiles. It's safer.

Less likely to get you hurt in the long run.

Stiles caught Derek's eyes, and neither of them were willing to look away. Between the sexual tension, the alcohol and the atmosphere of them all fighting for their lives; well. Sober Stiles was going to have a shit-ton of problems.

Drunk Stiles liked making life difficult for Sober Stiles. It was _funny_.

Drunk Stiles was also drunk enough to admit that he liked Derek. And by 'like', he meant _climb him like a goddamned tree_.

There was no way this is going to end well.

...

They stumbled into Derek's room, so drunk the world was spinning around their heads and the only stable handholds were each other.

Derek felt himself being shoved backwards against the white wall, and then Stiles was on him- hands mapping the planes of Derek's body like it was all they were ever meant to do-, hot lips pressing pseudo close-mouthed kisses in trails up and around Derek's collarbone, above where his shirt ended and flushed skin began.

"Stiles." Derek groaned, low and guttural, because Stiles was kissing him but he wasn't _kissing_ him, the mage's mouth achingly absent from Derek's own, and Derek wanted Stiles' lips on his forever ago.

Stiles grinned wolfishly at him (Derek was so fuckin' screwed), and pulled back until his chest wasn't pressing into Derek, until he could slip one strong thigh between Derek's legs, their hips grinding together to a non-existent beat, and Derek couldn't resist turning them over until Stiles was the one with his back to the wall, eyes dark with lust and magic and whatever the hell else it was that made Derek's cock ache in his pants whenever he looked into Stiles' eyes.

Derek pressed himself into Stiles' space, hands braced above the teen's head, felt the proof of Stiles' interest against his hip and thanked every deity he could think of that Stiles was legal because he didn't know if he could stop- didn't think he'd be capable of not finishing what had been building up for _months_.

Derek was dizzy with it all, with everything he wanted and with knowing Stiles wanted it too, with the phantom lingering sensation of Stiles' long fingers grazing his hipbones.

He wanted to fuck Stiles, wanted to feel the mage pressing into him, wanted Stiles' kiss bruised mouth wrapped around him and wanted to get his mouth on Stiles' cock- Derek wanted everything, everything he had imagined during late night touches and wet gasps in the shower, wanted the grinding and friction and Stiles' tongue licking the insides of his mouth, because he was drunk and had wanted this for longer than he cared to consider.

He was going to come embarrassingly quickly, he knew it- he was already hard and sore and desperate from just thinking about his fantasy becoming reality.

They fell backwards onto Derek's bed, the blue comforter a sharp contrast to the red flush of Stiles' cheeks, and Derek dipped his head down to bite and suckle at the teen's lips, shoulders shaking with the effort of keeping himself up.

Stiles rolled them over then, thighs bracing against Derek's, hands tightening in the hair at the back of Derek's head until the pleasure-edged-pain made Derek groan aloud, the fluid undulation of Stiles' hips causing friction and pressure in all the right places, and he was looking up at the mage through heavy-lidded eyes, unable to withhold the small moans that escaped with every movement of Stiles' body.

Stiles tasted like coffee and rich alcohol and lightning sparks of magic against Derek's tongue even as his lips pressed sore bruising kisses onto Derek's own, and Derek thought privately of how easy it would be to get addicted to the flavour, how he was already- if he were honest- halfway there.

When Stiles drew back everything in Derek violently rebelled at his absence, and Derek chased the taste with his tongue, nipping and sucking at the pale, mole-dotted skin of Stiles' throat, and Stiles let out a rumbling growl that made Derek's cock stiffen impossibly further until it was painfully hard and leaking against the fabric of his jeans.

Stiles leveraged himself off of the bed, and Derek growled at him loudly, enjoying the full body shudder that earned, and he opened his mouth to say something but was cut off by the bare skin of Stiles' chest as he drew his shirt over his head.

Stiles flung the offensive item across the room, and bent down to lock his lips to Derek's once again, but Derek lifted one hand to stop him and instead started tracing the symbols and lines imprinted into Stiles' skin with his fingers, watching the myriad of emotions that flickered over Stiles' face before settling on aroused, and Derek tried to focus on the black sprawling ink and not the burns, the scars, the diagonal slice across the mage's chest.

Derek raised his head to press a kiss to the space just above Stiles' heart. _I'm sorry_ , went unsaid, and Stiles sighed lightly at Derek's touch, causing the Alpha to continue his kissing- down across Stiles' ribs, following the path of the spirals etched into Stiles' skin, up to the place where neck met shoulder and his scent was purest, an unspoken apology in every brush of his lips to Stiles' skin.

"Clothes off." Stiles finally groaned, and Derek sat up, all too eager to rip the fabric from his over-heated skin, and watched the way Stiles' fingers twitched like he wanted to be the one to do it.

Stiles' eyes were glowing- a strange sort of silver (or was it gold?)- and Derek quickly rid himself of his jeans. Stiles' tongue darted out to lick his lip, but Derek wanted Stiles naked.

"Your turn." He said, and he was pretty sure his eyes were Alpha red and commanding, but Stiles just grinned at him, ran a hand down the front of his chest, pulled one side of his jeans down to expose his thigh and winked because he knew exactly what he was doing.

" _Stiles_." Derek groaned, and there was a flash of black that tore through the silver of his eyes before the teen was dragging the jeans off his hips and stepping out of them, happy trail pointing down like an arrow to where his cock stood, long and hard and _dripping_ , and Derek was relieved to know he wasn't the only one between them as affected as he was.

There was a rush of movement then, the feeling of Stiles' skin dragging against his as they fought for dominance, and it was unbearable and too much and not enough all at once.

Stiles wound up on top, chest heaving with sudden darts of breath, lips curled up in a feral smile and Derek's chest rumbled with a growl he couldn't have held back even if he wanted to.

Stiles slid a hand down his chest, pausing to rub smooth circles into his hip bone, and wrapped it around Derek's cock; Derek's vision blanked out for a moment, because Stiles' rhythmic strokes from base to tip were driving him insane- the way he thumbed at the slit and at the vein underneath and dragged the tips of his fingertips down his balls- the way he smiled down at Derek like he wasn't giving Derek the best hand-job he'd ever gotten- and Derek couldn't catch his breath, pleasure over-riding every nerve of his body, couldn't stop his hips from stuttering upwards into Stiles' fingers.

Stiles thrust suddenly against his thigh, like he'd forgotten his erection until it forcibly reminded him, and the small, stuttering whine he made into the skin of Derek's neck was enough to push Derek suddenly over the edge- he threw his head back against the bed, tore half moon crescents into the skin of Stiles' back, Stiles' lightning and vanilla scent filling his nose until the mage was all he could smell and taste.

Derek came back to earth with a groan- thighs sticky, muscles lax, and Stiles was shuddering above him, so close that Derek could count the individual curves of his lashes.

He started when Derek got a hand around him, moaned into the juncture of Derek's neck and shoulder, braced his arms either side of Derek's head. Derek tightened his grip, and Stiles let out a sort of whining growl, and the words, "Fuck, _Derek_ ," were hardly distinguishable amid the pleasure, but Stiles' little whimpers as his hips stuttered had no right to be as fucking hot as they were.

Derek wanted to lean upwards and bury his face in the mage's neck- wanted to scent him until both of their smells mingled underneath the other's skin.

He didn't, barely, but the broken little gasps as Stiles thrust into his hand made it nearly impossible to resist, so he couldn't prevent the way his fingers closed tighter around Stiles' cock, his free hand reached up to slide his fingers into the teen's curly hair, and he murmured, "Maybe later," in a voice so thick with sated lust he could barely recognise it as his own.

Stiles came.

All over Derek's hand and the drying mess of their stomachs, muffling his disjointed cry in Derek's shoulder, skin so bright Derek had to squint.

Fuck, Stiles was _glowing_ , his skin incandescent and golden, like a slice of the sun had fallen to earth and melted into Stiles' body. Derek could scarcely breathe.

The glow finally faded, leaving Stiles panting and exhausted sprawled over Derek's chest, skin still faintly shimmering as if someone had up ended a container of glitter all over him.

Stiles rolled over onto his back, a grunt escaping him at the movement, and Derek's eyes were closing entirely of their own accord, his body demanding sleep.

"This doesn't change anything." Stiles said, voice heavy with the need to rest, and Derek felt like that was something he should probably pay attention to so he forced his eyes to open, taking in the open window and the smashed bulb in his ceiling light.

Derek tried to remember if the bulb had been broken when they came in, but can't quite recall thinking about anything except getting his mouth on Stiles as quickly as possible.

"I'm still leaving when all of this is over." Stiles insisted, and okay, that was definitely important, and Derek tried to get his weary body to respond because the idea of Stiles leaving physically pained him- was enough to remove all traces of sleepiness from his mind.

But when he finally pushed himself up, he looked over to find that Stiles had fallen asleep, mouth open, hair tussled and looking like sex, and Derek felt the faintest traces of pride at the light bruises dotting up and down the mage's skin.

Derek fell asleep to the even breaths of Stiles beside him, and tried not to think about Stiles' last words.

Stiles couldn't leave. He _couldn't_.

Except that he, of course, could, and Derek had no right to ask him to stay. Sure, they'd slept together, but that didn't mean Derek had a claim, no matter what his wolf was insisting.

Derek was going to get his heart broken, but he didn't regret a moment of it.

...

Stiles woke up in a unfamiliar bed, with an unfamiliar head next to his, and the extremely familiar sensation of panic blocking his throat. He stumbled off of the bed soundlessly and made his way to the window, ignoring his nudity in favour of gulping down deep breaths of cold night air.

In and out.

In and out.

When he dug his nails into the soft skin of his forearm it hurt, and Stiles felt the last vestiges of panic leave. He clenched his fists together, and dropped his head between his arms, braced as they were on the wall.

In and out.

When he turned around, he was greeted with the sight of Derek, lying on his stomach, head resting on his folded arms. Stiles resisted the urge to beat his head against the wall when the memories of the night before came through.

He fucked Derek. _Actually_ , his brain was quick to remind him, _there was no **actual** fucking involved_.

Wonderful. He gave and received a band job from Derek, the Alpha, the asshole, the person Stiles had been doing a _fantastic_ job of decidedly _not_ screwing. That made everything so much better.

In and out.

In and out.

Panic began crawling up his insides again, and Stiles shoved it downwards savagely, refusing to panic over something as normal as sex. Even if this complicated things. Even if Stiles had wanted Derek since that first moment in the forest. Even if his treacherous heart wanted more than just one drunken night.

In and out.

Fuck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so long story short; there's been some shit that's happened in my life recently, and it's taken me ages to get back into writing with any consistency again. So I'm sorry for the delay, but I feel that if I'd tried to write earlier it wouldn't have been to the standard you guys deserve, and I didn't want that.
> 
> But on to the good stuff-  
> Stiles and Derek finally get together in the chapter! I was toying with the idea of writing actual sex (AKA penetration) but I think that neither characters are ready at this point in the story. Also, I am a wuss who has never posted smut before. Tell me how I did!
> 
> As always, I don't have a Beta and Teen Wolf does not belong to me (let's face it, if it did, it wouldn't be called 'fiction' it would be called 'canon'.
> 
> Thank you all for you massive support, and it just blows me away. This story is for all of you out there who took the time to read it, kudos, comment and subscribe. I love you all!
> 
> There will be three more chapters, I think, with the second-to-last being shorter than the other two.
> 
> Honestly, I can't believe this story ever made it this far. I owe it to all of you for your support!
> 
> Love and long life,  
> H.S.F


	16. I'm not scared of dying. I mean, it wouldn't be the first time, and it's kinda like riding a rollercoaster, you know? After the third time it's just boring. (And yes, that's the story I'm going with. If I'm going to die at least let me have this.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles fulfils his debt to the pixies, the pack enjoy their final hours, and Stiles finally talks with his dad. Everything's a long time in coming.

Stiles woke up to a dull, throbbing pain in his hand. The early light of the sun was seeping through the hastily closed curtains, and for a minute he squinted against the rays, unable to see.

Then the minute passed, and he pushed himself clumsily off of the floor, limbs stiff and sore from sitting that way for fuck knows how many hours. The window above him was still open, and outside the house he could hear the birds and the trees and the idyllic woodland sounds that don't exactly proclaim the arrival of the end of the world.

And he could feel it, too. The thrumming in the air. The perverse stickiness latching onto his skin, like month old bad milk.

It seemed like they didn't have as long as they'd planned on, and not nearly enough time to train the wolves. He'd hoped- well, Stiles had hoped for a lot of things. And even though, intellectually, he's known they were unlikely, it didn't prevent the way his stomach sank down to his toes upon awaking and knowing it was going to happen today.

He raised his hand to drag his fingers through his hair, pulling at the roots to get a better grasp of himself and his emotions. _Okay_ , he though calmly, _you knew it was coming, and everything's set up- as ready as it'll ever be. The pack know what to do, you know what to do, and who knows what might've happened if you waited longer. Just breathe, Stiles. Panicking will help no one and solve nothing._.

It was only then, when he'd gotten that brief momentary doubt and fear out of his system, that he noticed two things.

1\. Derek was still in the bed. Naked, but for the strategically placed sheet falling over his thighs and midway up his back. Then the night's... _activities_ came rushing back, and Stiles scrubbed his face with both of his hands, despair and self-anger and regret overwhelming him, warring with the small but undeniably there amount of delight and pride. And something else, but Stiles was avoiding the L-word like he avoided hunters. That is to say; he attempted to, but every so often it came back and slapped him in the face.

That brought him to the second point of interest; 2. His burning hand. He lifted it curiously in front of his face, watching as the skin at the base of his index finger began to redden and blister, roughly in the shape of a ring. He suddenly understood, and silently Stiles made his way across the room, using magic to clean himself off and conjuring clothes while he was at it to cover his nakedness.

He glanced back, once, to look at Derek's sleeping face, and he could have thought something cliché about innocence in sleep and Derek looking like he was at peace, but the truth was, the wolf looked neither. The Alpha looked calm, yes, but his brows were furrowed together and his mouth was slack as the air whistled past his teeth. He looked so terribly _human_ , and that made everything so much worse.

Gently, Stiles pulled the door shut behind him, unwilling to wake Derek and have to deal with the confrontation. Cowardly? Yes. But he did have somewhere to be, after all.

Stiles descended the stairs, his sock-clad feet eerily loud in the silence. It was early- too early, Stiles figured, for anyone but him to be up and about. In fact, he was counting on it. It probably wasn't even six yet.

Stiles was not a morning person. But beggars couldn't be choosers, so he made his way as quietly as possibly to the kitchen for a drink before leaving. He was as yet undecided whether that drink would be alcohol or coffee, though he was leaning towards coffee if only to remove the taste of bad life choices from his mouth.

He wished he could say it was a new flavour.

Standing in the empty kitchen, mug of coffee in hand, the quiet morning pervading through the entire house, Stiles was struck by the feeling that this- the waking up early and the pack and _Derek_ , looking out at green leafy foliage and cloudy blue skies-, this was something he could be happy doing.

As soon as he thought it Stiles promptly shoved it to the furthest reaches of his mind, the corner reserved for hopes like a decent Percy Jackson movie and world peace and his dad never eating fatty foods again, and living past twenty (it wasn't exactly something common in their world, particularly for those who do what Stiles does).

He drained his morning caffeine shot and left through the back door, closing it firmly behind him. He could teleport, of course, and it'd be a lot quicker and easier, and it wasn't like they had a lot of time to waste, but he just... _couldn't_. Not when his time here was short.

Beacon Hills was beautiful. New York was beautiful too, of course, and Stiles could admit he loved it there. Loved the bustle and the crowds and the parks and the tall buildings, loved the restaurants with foreign patrons and the shopping sprees near holidays and the rush of looking out over a city that was so alive.

He loved his friends and his job and the way they almost resembled a pack, loved learning new things and fighting evil (for a given definition of the term). He loved the wildness of it all, of leaving for weeks on end for strange new places and being able to return and tell his stories without anyone judging him or thinking him incapable.

New York was a beautiful concrete jungle, full of adventure and atmosphere if you knew where to look, and Stiles did miss it. He missed everything he'd made for himself in a different world, and he'd expected it even before he left.

But he'd missed Beacon Hills, like a phantom limb that, though removed, continued to fester. He'd missed his dad and the town and the freedom of running in the Preserve, he'd missed researching in his room and Lydia (God, how he'd missed Lydia) and even, when he allowed himself, the pack as well.

He'd missed the feeling of being around people he'd known his entire life, even if most of them still saw him as little more than the Sheriff's kid.

So yeah, he'd missed Beacon Hills. Didn't mean he wasn't still saying goodbye to it. Was probably (were he being honest) part of the reason he was leaving in the first place.

But he was going to enjoy the walk while it lasted, enjoy the peace and quiet, even as the sense of wrongness filling the air threatened to choke him. It took a little less than a quarter of an hour for him to reach his destination, as told by the heightened intensity of the burn on his left hand.

He entered the clearing loudly, announcing his presence with the brush of the branches away from his face, and he walked confidently to the centre, where a patch of grass about two metres wide was flattened down like it had been used as a landing pad.

"Hic sum ad explendum meum debitum." ( _I am here to fulfil my debt._ ) Stiles announced into the empty clearing, and his voice echoed oddly against the trees, giving the appearance of multiple Stiles' all speaking in unison.

Suddenly, there was a movement at the other end of the circle, and a steady stream of blue pixies wove their way through the trees. They danced around him, so much more at ease in his company compared to their last meeting, and Stiles thought he should probably begin all meetings with his achievements just in case a similar circumstance can be achieved every time.

Who ever said he wasn't a diplomat can blow him.

"Lorem ipsum dolor sit, amicus magus. Nos sunt laetus accepit, nuntius noster." ( _Welcome, friend mage. We are glad you received our message_ ) Came from his left, and his right, and somewhere behind him, and Stiles thought privately that at least when they were wary of him they were in one big group and their hive mind speech hadn't made his head ache.

Right now, he was exhausted and hungry and trying not to panic about fighting the demon who killed him, and Stiles never wanted to be a politician anyway, even if that was sometimes part of his job description.

"Quid exigis a me?" ( _What is it you require from me?_ ) It was said briskly, though he did try and tone down the rudeness of it. The pixies seemed to understand though, because none of them swooped down to start clawing at his eyes.

He was glad, because Stiles was rather fond of his eyes. He'd prefer to keep them in optimal condition as long as possible, thanks.

"Quid est nos omnes vis? Praesidium. Salus. Ibi est multum de malo in his silvis nuper, videtur. Populo nostro tantum vult esse solus." ( _What is it we all want? Protection. Safety. There is a great deal of evil in these woods recently, it seems. Our people only want to be left alone._ ) There was an agitated rustle among the pixies, like a wave of their wings, and Stiles followed the motion with his gaze even as his gut clenched with empathy.

Pixies were a generally peaceful species. Scary motherfuckers, but peaceful. They had a matriarchal classing system, each clan ruled by a chosen female, and all the clans ruled over by the Queen, and outside of that every pixie had a right to whatever job they wished. Stiles had seen a variety of different careers while he was with their Queen, like warriors and scholars and young-carers.

It was, and continued to be, one of the most successful working societal systems Stiles had ever seen. Much more effective than humans, that was for certain. All working towards a common goal, all so closely linked in intimate ways via telepathy that the idea of causing _purposeful harm_ \- whether emotional or physical or mental- towards another was... _abhorrent_. They didn't even have law based punishments, and instead an individual's actions were talked about and considered and solved within their smaller family unit.

Theirs wasn't a perfect system, but it was as close as was possible to be. In case it wasn't clear, Stiles had a lot of respect for pixies.

"Ego sum paenitet enim malo, quod, ut quidam propter meam praesentiam hic. Erat numquam ab intentione faciat populum tuum molestiae in aliquo, amen dico vobis." ( _I am sorry for the evil, as some of it is because of my presence here. It was never by intent to cause your people discomfort in any way, I assure you._ )The pixies rippled again, and Stiles didn't know if it was because of his admission or the true regret in his voice. He had never meant to harm them.

Perhaps it was a mixture of both.

"Cum loqueris, fidem, quid est, quod vis?" ( _When you speak of protection, what exactly is it you desire?_ ) Stiles asks before they respond, because he has a rough idea but he wants confirmation, wants to be sure they're all going into this with the same thing in mind. Spells are tricky like that. For him, they were about intention. He'd made mistakes before, caused accidents, when his entire focus wasn't on the spell at hand.

"Volumus ire, ignorabitur, nisi nos cupiditas. Et scimus, quod est taxatione carmine, et non vis infirmare tibi, sed nobis populus ad primum venire." ( _We wish to go unnoticed unless we desire it. We are aware that it is a taxing spell, and don't want to weaken you, but our people have to come first._ ) It's good to know, Stiles muses, that at least some beings will be getting out of this fight alive. It's a fair enough request, and in any other situation he wouldn't be hesitating at all, would probably have already jumped into the spell.

But this wasn't any other situation. He had, arguably, the biggest fight off his life later today- or at least the one on which the most depended. He couldn't afford to give his energy to a spell as trivial at this, one that wouldn't serve their plan. At the same time, he couldn't _not_ help. Their predicament was, after all, almost entirely his fault.

And he might have started off doing what he does out of desperation and pride, but he'd quickly come to love the _rush_ of helping people. The spread of his magic, humming and alive, down his fingers, lighting up like golden sparks as it hurried to do his bidding- and there'd always been a bigger joy in protection spells, anyway.

He could do offensive magic, obviously, and he was _good_ at it too, but there was never a time when offensive magic called to him as much as defensive magic did. Still, he had to ask.

"Ego intellegere. Et non considerare relicto enim tutius silvis?" ( _I understand. And you will not consider leaving for safer woods?_ ) Stiles knew what the answer will be before they even began to consider his question, and there was a part of him that was inordinately _proud_ at their response.

"Non. Hoc est, nostrum, ut dictum est, pro centuries. Nihilominus, illic est parum ad tempus tuto et efficaciter organize discessum." ( _No. This is our home, as it has been for centuries. Regardless, there is too little time to safely and efficiently organise departure._ ) It was a good point, that much Stiles could admit graciously. It didn't make his life any easier, but then he'd never been a big fan of easy anyway.

"Ego conveniunt. Et hoc est, quod velis ad usum meum debitum?" ( _I agree. And this is what you wish to use my debt for?_ )

"Sic." ( _Yes._ ) Stiles took a moment to consider idly that there should probably be dramatic music playing in the background at their decision, all bass and high spikes of notes. Maybe the Jaws theme song. Or Star Wars. Yes, he was a nerd. He'd covered this already. Keep up.

"Valde bene. Ego mittitur in carmine, et populum tuum erit tutum." ( _Very well. I will cast the spell and your people will be safe._ ) Stiles brought his hands in front of his chest, feeling the pressure build-up of magic in his fingertips, waiting to be released.

"Custodi tuto." ( _Keep a safe distance._ ) He told them as an afterthought, and after they'd retreated to the outlying trees he took a deep breath in, his entire body relaxing on the exhale, sinking into the ground.

He allowed a small trickle of energy to escape his hands, watched in his mental eye as it danced toward the pixies, winding its way around the group. He let loose another, and then another, and suddenly the air was full of them, visible now, a multitude of colours and shapes falling over each other, iridescent in the sunlight, like flames or moonbeams against the green backdrop.

He felt more than heard the pixies' collective inhale of breath, felt more than saw the shuddering of the trees as the magic entwined with their branches, and it took more focus than usual to draw it back towards where it was supposed to be.

He could feel the _wrongness_ just outside the clearing, and the hair on the back of his neck rose as it slithered across the ground, but _no, focus Stiles, protection, safety, you can do it_.

Where offensive magic was like an arrow, or a sword, all sharp edges and clear paths, laying waste, defensive magic was like- it was like ribbons, or lego blocks, and every sliver of magic built upon the last until suddenly there was a wall of ribbons, all different colours, all with different textures, tying together into a unpredictably strong woven cloth.

Stiles stopped the flow of magic, and reached out to feel for any inconsistencies in the fabric, to feel for weak spots that could be exploited. There were none, and, when he opened his eyes, the world seemed a lot darker without his magic swirling in the air.

"Meum debitum vobis fuit solutum. Nos sunt, non ligatum. Securus, et fortasse dicemus, obviam iterum." ( _My debt to you has been paid. We are no longer tied. Stay safe, and maybe we shall meet again._ ) He said finally, and he wasn't drained by the magic, as such, but he was definitely weaker than he'd been. Not significantly, but noticeably. It worried him, but he didn't regret it.

"Gratias vobis agimus. Donec tempus, honorari amicus. Nos spes vestra pugna est prospere." ( _We thank you. Until the next time, honoured friend. We hope your fight is successful._ ) The pixies came and circled him once more, a few of the braver ones daring to dart close and inspect his face, and their silvery wings tickled his skin, leaving shimmering traces of pixie dust streaked across his face.

Then they left, their sudden departure making the woods seem even darker, and were Stiles the human he'd been but two years ago he might be nervous about his solitude this deep in the forest.

But he wasn't. Instead, he dug his hands into his pocket and set off on a course away from the house. He had things to do before returning to the pack. He just hoped they all went as well as the pixies did.

...

When Allison woke up, Scott splayed across her chest, breathing softly, her hunter senses went nuts. Her heartbeat must have ratcheted upwards, because Scott was immediately alert, darting forward and almost falling off the bed in his hurry to see the danger.

The problem was that it wasn't anything she could quantify. The room was exactly as they left it before going asleep, the curtains still drawn and creased in the middle, the floor an explosion of clothes all tangled up exactly where they'd left them in a fit of exhaustion, and the house was silent.

But her skin was crawling with something she couldn't name, and she was about to ask Scott if he was sensing anything with his wolf senses when he froze. "Scott?" She asked, pulling her body up to lean against the wall, hands reaching out to help before she realised what they were doing.

"Can you feel that?" He asked, voice thick and eyes heavy, and Allison couldn't do anything but nod in response.

They got dressed silently, both of them sharing touches as reassurance, and her hands was itching for her bow and an enemy. Or a target, she wasn't feeling particularly picky. Nauseous, yes. Weighed down, yes. Picky, no.

They left the unsettling solitude of their room as quickly as possible, desperate for the comforting companionship of pack. They met Isaac on the stairs, and Allison couldn't help the rush of _affectiondesireneed_ she felt when she saw him, and, judging by Scott's exhale beside her, her boyfriend felt the same way.

Isaac looked comforted by their presence, so Allison stepped forward and wrapped one arm around his waist, Scott on his other side. They entered the kitchen that way, and Allison caught the triumphant look on Stiles' face before the mage quickly shut the feeling down. She tried not to flush under his suspicion.

Scott failed to suppress his blush, however, and that broke the quiet tenseness of the room. They were all there, in various positions around the kitchen. Erica sat on the counter, Boyd beside her, Peter, Lydia and Deaton in deep conversation beside the fridge, Jackson and Danny throwing spherical fruit back and forth across the island counter, her dad standing in the far corner, arms crossed, an expression on his face that suggested disbelief. _Not just one werewolf_ , it seemed to say to her, _no, that would be too easy. Instead she has to have **two** werewolves. God help me. I'm never going to hear the end of this_.

She hid her grin in Isaac's shoulder, but caught Stiles' eye from where he stood in front of the sink and shared an conspiratorial smirk. As she looked around though, she noticed the glaring absence of one particular member. Derek was nowhere to be seen, but, before she could really think about where he could be, the Alpha himself walked surely into the room.

There was a collective inhale of breath from the wolves, and that was- yeah, that was creepy. No way to disguise it as anything else.

Then, almost as one, the wolves stumbled. Not physically, although Scott didn't look too far away from it (she loved him but he wasn't exactly the most graceful person on the planet, even before you compare him to werewolves). It was more that she could see the way all of their brains just sort of- _stopped_ , like whatever they were smelling was too powerful to understand.

Stiles laughed, and she wasn't surprised that he seemed to understand what was going on. "I think we might've broken them." He told Derek, lips raised to show teeth in a soundless snarl, and Allison saw Derek shift awkwardly before continuing on his trajectory to the coffee machine at the other end of the kitchen.

Stiles saw her confused expression, and laughed again, a harsh, false sound that made chills rise on her arms and the back of her neck. "Me and Derek dealt with some of our repressed emotions last night, got it all clear and in the air. The pack are simply smelling that."

Allison began to feel the dawning tendrils of comprehension in her mind. Her face must have still been stuck on confused, as Stiles felt the need to clarify further.

"We had sex." He said, enunciating each word clearly, and Danny choked suddenly, eyes darting back and forth between the Alpha and the mage. That seemed to be sufficient reaction to break the stillness, because there were suddenly a bombardment of questions and comments rained down on the duo.

"When did this happen?!" Erica exclaimed.  
"I thought I heard something!" Yelled Isaac.  
"That's interesting." Deaton commented. Of course.  
"Congratulations, I suppose." Peter said dryly.  
"Stiles, you like _Derek_?" Asked Scott, eyes wide.  
"Does that mean you two are together?" Questioned Boyd, which was possibly the first reasonable reaction of the morning.  
"God, that's hot." Danny blurted, before continuing quickly with, "I mean, congrats on the resolved sexual tension and everything. But it's still hot."  
"And you're telling us why?" Asked a disgusted Jackson.  
"And when were you planning on informing me of this, Stiles?" Lydia demanded.  
"Called it." Allison found herself saying, and _no, what was she doing, **stop talking**_ , "Scott you owe me twenty dollars."  
"You made a bet on whether me and Stiles would have sex?" Asked a disturbed Derek.  
Her dad sighed. Loudly. _Rude_.

"Enough." Stiles commanded quietly, and the voices stopped. "Yes, me and Derek had sex. No, that does not change anything, and, should it, you will be the first ones to be informed. Hell, I'll put it in the newspaper. Now if we could all stop and maybe deal with the fact that unless we win the fight this evening, Beacon Hills will be destroyed? _Thank you_.'' Stiles finished empathetically, and Allison felt just a tiny bit bad, but also rather impressed.

Stiles would have made one formidable hunter, that was for sure.

"Okay, so everyone knows the plan. Scott and Erica, you guys are on corpse duty. It'd be worthwhile seeing if Melissa can help on that front, because otherwise it'd be difficult. Alan and Peter, you're on protection spells for everyone. You've both done it before, you know how it goes. Oak, holly, the usual. Oh, and Alan, if you have the poppy and hydrilla now would be the _perfect_ time for them. Chris, you're on hunter duty. Keep them away, you hear? I don't care whether you use fists, guns or words, just keep them away from us. We can't be fighting two battles, and, after last time, I don't trust the other hunters not to be on their side. Danny, I want you to help Lydia. You know what to do." Danny and Lydia exchanged a smirk, and for a minute Allison was objectively terrified of their combination.

"Boyd and Allison you're on scout duty. Keep an eye out, keep everyone else away, and lay as many fucking booby-traps and dangers as you want all over the forest. I'd say they're only a few hours away. We've got until five, maybe six. I want everyone back here for no later than three to get some rest, food, and whatever the hell else will help you relax."

There were a few loose chuckles among the pack, and Stiles smiled slightly, one side of his mouth unevenly tipped upwards.

It was only around nine in the morning, the sun still not yet blazing at its highest. Scott's hand was tense and slightly damp where she held it with hers, and Allison wished they could've had more time. But her blood was humming in her veins, and she had too much hunter in her to walk away from a fight.

The demon was on their territory now. Their rules. They were going to win. They had to.

...

Stiles was the last to arrive back at the house. It'd been a- _tough_ morning. He'd done his rounds, checked his shields, spent a few hours creating new ones for the pack that ensured their safety, went for a run to check how his month-long spell was holding up, dropped by the Argent house to leave the final touch in the bestiary, and, finally, went to see his dad.

Needless to say, it hadn't exactly cheered him up, but it was something he had had to do.

( _Stiles standing beside his dad's desk, body tense._

_"Dad, can I talk to you for a minute?"_

_The Sheriff looked up, and his eyes went wide when he saw who it was. "Sure, Stiles. If you give me a minute to finish up this paperwork we can head back home."_

_Stiles shook his head stiffly, self-depreciating smile already on his face. "No, it's fine, I have to head back soon anyway. It's just that-"_

_He stopped suddenly, furious with himself for being unable to find the right words. John waited, at least semi-patiently, and Stiles felt a great surge of love for the man who'd raised him, and it helped him finally speak._

_"I know I haven't been around much, since I've been back. I know we haven't spent nearly as much time together as we should've, and for that I'm sorry. I know I'm probably not the son you said goodbye to over a year ago, just like I know you'd never judge me for it. Living the way I've lived, helping people, it changed me. It was always going to change me. You knew it when I left, knew what I'd have to do, but you let me go regardless, and I'm just- thank you, for that. It means... more to me than you know, that you trusted me like that."_

_John was sitting almost entirely straight in his desk now, and Stiles was fumbling with his words, knowing that if he didn't get them out now he never would._

_"And I guess it's in my blood, helping people. I did get it from you after all. So I realise that me, acting as I have the past while, with the- the disappearing and the late nights and the mud tracked up the stairs, it couldn't have been easy for you to trust me, especially after I lied to you before. So I guess I just want to- to say thank you, for that, for letting me do what I needed, for being there if I wanted to watch a movie at four in the morning. I'm not the easiest person to live with, I understand that, and even though you're my dad you're not- you weren't ever- **obligated** to take care of me, so, um, I guess I just wanted to, to tell you that I lo-"_

_Stiles was cut off by a rush of movement and fabric, and suddenly his dad was out from behind the desk and hugging him like he hadn't done in **months**. Stiles sunk into the embrace, and he realised belatedly that his hands were shaking as he pressed them into his father's back, and he buried his face in the shoulder of the police uniform he was as familiar with as he was with the deputies in the station. It was the quietest his mind had been in- in a long time._

_"I know, son." John said, and Stiles allowed himself a precious few seconds to get a better grasp of his emotions before he reluctantly untangled them._

_"Well," He said in a joking tone, "Now that that's over with." He wiped his not-damp eyes with the sleeve of his hoodie, and even his father looked suspiciously bright eyed; but, if asked, it was because of how bright the lights in the station were._

_He gave his father a rough idea of what was happening, skipping over the dying and the slim likelihood of success and the cold terror he felt low in the pit of his stomach, instead conveying urgency and battle and importance while glancing at the door to make sure they weren't being listened in on._

_Though he supposed 'demon' could have been a code word._

_"How can I help?" John asked immediately once he was finished, and Stiles smiled ruefully._

_"Keep everyone away from the Preserve. There's going to be loud noises, probably guns, maybe a bomb or two if we can pull it off- there's no telling what will happen. Help keep the casualties to a minimum and lock down the area. I don't have the faintest idea of what to tell them; I'll leave the details up to your expertise."_

_"Well thanks.'' Came his father's sarcastic response, and Stiles grinned happily._

_"Help Argent, if he needs it. Stay safe and try not to get yourself killed."_

_John hesitated. "Are you're sure I can't help more, help fight...?"_

_Stiles loved his father for his courage, but there wasn't a hope in hell (Stiles would know) of him letting his dad anywhere **near** the action. "This isn't a fight for humans, even the police. This isn't the sort of fight that guns and tasers will be enough. It's why Chris will be elsewhere, and Danny, Allison and Lydia will be in the trees giving us air support. Alan will be supplying us with potions, but even he won't be in the main line of fire. If you came you'd be likely to get yourself, or me, killed." He told him gently, because his dad knew this, he **did** , but love did strange things to people._

_John smiled, and it wasn't all there but it wasn't completely pained either, so Stiles counted it as at least a partial win._

_"I know." His dad said softly, and Stiles stepped forward to hug him again, the illusion of stoniness forgotten in favour of comforting the man who'd made him who he was today._

_"I'm scared." Stiles admitted into the juncture between his dad's neck and shoulder, the words he hadn't dared utter muffled by the thick fabric._

_Stiles felt his dad's sad smile against the side of his head, and he squeezed his eyes shut, wishing, just for a moment, that he wasn't a mage or their only hope or powerful. Wishing that his biggest concerns were being a loser in school, or not handing homework in on time, or asking someone out on a date, rather than the end of the world._

_"I know." John said into his hair, and Stiles calmed his breath, pulling back to watch the Sheriff's face. His dad didn't bother with platitudes or useless comforts, he just caught Stiles' eyes with his and held them for a few long seconds. "But would you be able to live with yourself if you didn't go?"_

_Ruefully, Stiles smiled. "I guess I'm too much like you after all." He answered, and his mouth was dry with something unnameable but that felt a lot like terror. He'd faced worse monsters, fought longer battles, battled for days on end, but he'd never been as scared as he was in that instant._

_Fighting alone is easy. Nearly dying... it wasn't something he'd concerned himself with when he had nothing to lose. Now, though, with this fight, if he lost he didn't just lose his life, he lost **everything**. And even if they won, there was no telling who'd make it out._

_There was nothing quite like realising he no longer had nothing to lose. It was why he's expended so much of his energy- probably too much but it gave him peace of mind, which was something found few and far between lately- weaving shields around the pack._

_He might not be able to save himself, but he was damned sure he would at the very least save them._

_"No, Stiles." John told him, voice heavy with fear and worry and the emotions of a parent sending their child off to war, "You've always taken more after Claudia than me, though I will take credit for your teen years."_

_Stiles stiffened, and before he could stop himself he found himself letting slip the question that had been plaguing him for years. "Do you think she'd be proud of me?" His voice sounded deceptively young right then, nothing like the weapon he'd trained himself to be, but if ever there was a time for letting his guard down that it was here, now, with his magic coiling around his veins like liquid rope and his eyes so feverishly bright they brought to mind insanity._

_"I'm certain of it."_ )

They were all there, standing outside the house, in twos and threes and one massive group, ranging from Alpha to wolf to hunter to mage to human to banshee to- pack. They were a pack.

And it was clear, from where Stiles stood, that there were still divisions. And maybe Chris and Alan and Peter shouldn't have been pack, maybe Stiles was still wilfully, stubbornly, ( _uselessly_ ) insisting on his autonomy, and maybe that didn't matter.

Maybe what truly mattered was the fact that they were all still standing here, even with the futileness of their fight- that Stiles had to believe they could win, he just _had_ to- and maybe that choice made them pack, made them _more_.

But maybe Stiles was feeling sentimental.

He didn't make it to the porch steps before he felt it- lighting crashing down his spine and the stench of thick ozone in the air, and he knew that this- these last few months, between dying and this fight, between what _was_ and what _is now_ , today- between arriving back at Beacon Hills and saying a roundabout goodbye to his dad _just in case_ \- was only the eye of the storm.

The calm before the disaster.

And he was falling to his knees, cry of pain slipping from his lips, and in slow motion he could see the pack beginning to rush towards him, claws and bow and hands out ready to fight off some invisible assailant.

But Stiles forces himself to stand, forces words past bloody lips from where he dug his teeth into their flesh, forces himself to smile regardless of the crippling sensation of evil ramming down his walls.

Last time, they'd been small. _Lesser_. Last time they'd slipped under his walls and he'd felt their presence like needles pressing into his skin, something inconsistent and wrong in the pattern of his magic. But now, _now_ , since subtlety is a lost cause, the enemy was crashing head first into his barriers, like a truck into the side of a building, and Stiles can feel the building giving way, because it was never meant to hold out against evil of Baalberith's calibre forever.

There was a _swoosh_ of sound, a blast of cold air to Stiles' face, and he knew they'd breached his magic.

The pack reached him then, the few eternities of comprehension in Stiles' brain only seconds in this plane, and he was still standing, he noticed wondrously, which was a miracle all  
on its own.

Stiles waved away their concerned hands and cautious expressions, his hand tightening on the weapon he'd strapped to his hip before leaving his house. The _other_ one, his secret weapon, was hidden somewhere only Stiles could access it, and it _had_ to be at the right time. They couldn't know about it. They couldn't. It would ruin everything.

"They're here."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! I know it's been forever since I posted, so I'm sorry for that, but good (or bad, I guess) news! There are only two more chapters, and the next one is one I've been looking forward to writing since, like, chapter _three_.
> 
> Which means that it'll be posted soon! Yay! :P
> 
> Warnings;  
> I don't know. Emotional moments? Snark? They talk about Claudia, but only briefly. Oh, and the pixies are back, for a few thousand words. If I missed anything drop a comment and I'll fix it asap!
> 
> As always, no Beta, and I don't own Teen Wolf, so don't make any profits from this, etc etc. God, my disclaimers used to better.
> 
>  _Anyway_ , I just want to say a huge, monstrous, amazed, grateful and jaw-dropped thank you to every single person who read this story, or commented or left kudos or bookmarked or subscribed or rec'd. I don't even- you are all wonderful people, and keep me writing. There are no words, which, as a writer, probably isn't good.
> 
> So love and long life  
> (Enjoy your summer and have fun!)  
> H.S.F
> 
> P.S. Captain America: Civil War broke me. Broke. Me. I have the sneaking suspicion Star Trek Beyond will do the same. Why do I ship so many fictional characters? And why does it _hurt_ so much?
> 
> P.P.S. Made my brother watch Brokeback Mountain. He teared up, made an inconsolable wailing sound when it was over, and left the room. I think I may have broke him when I said, "Imagine you're OTP." Hint; it's Stucky. Was that too evil?


	17. "Here lies Stiles Stilinski; Professional Asshole" What? Too soon? Can't a guy joke about his own death without being frowned upon?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The final battle is here. They can only hope they're strong enough. Also, questions are answered, but probably not the ones you're thinking of.

On the evening of the 22nd of April, at precisely 5:03 p.m., Stiles Stilinski, also known as the Red Hood, fell to his knees amid the Beacon Hills wolf-pack.

It took only fourteen seconds until he was standing again, although for those present it felt like a lifetime.

At 5:16, after a heated discussion between the Alpha of the pack, Derek Hale, and Stiles himself, Stiles disappeared.

Derek Hale swore, and the wolves began their journey to where Stiles had told them the fight would occur.

At 5:21, Stiles and the wolves and the hunter and the banshee and the lone human faced against an army.

Chaos reigned.

...

Derek looked down the line of people, making sure to commit them all to memory just because (just in case). Peter stood to his left, his claws digging impatiently into the dirt. It had been a shock, finding out that his uncle had an actual wolf form like Derek did (after weeks and months of painstaking labour and crippling pain), but when questioned Peter had only shrugged and said something irritatingly vague about the power of magic.

To his right, when Derek lifted his shaggy wolf head, he could see Stiles, standing dead straight, one foot forward as if racing to the finish, eagerness and impatience in every line of his body. Stiles glanced down briefly, flashed him a quick smile, before returning to his watching, reminding him of blurry memories and the taste of lightning on his tongue, heavy and thick and _Stiles_.

He still wasn't sure what they were, or whether Stiles thought of what they did as anything other than stress-relief, and the uncertainty made his wolf uneasy. He knew what he _wanted_ them to be, but Derek learned at a young age that what he wanted and what came to pass rarely matched up.

But he put it out of his mind, because distraction got you killed on days like this; when everything was instinct and sure, certain movements, and when failure or hesitation meant death.

If he focused, he could pick out where Lydia and Allison and Danny were among the trees, betrayed by shifting leaves out of time with the wind. Deaton was somewhere far off behind them, chanting and bottling potions for them to use. They'd all already been given a healing accelerant, and as strong a protective potion as Deaton dared without impeding their speed.

Argent had left earlier, his focus on the hunters that had heard about the supernatural activity nearby and come to investigate (the Argents were an old family, and an older name, so even though their daughter dated a werewolf they had some standing left). He had departed quickly, if reluctantly; he'd spared a moment to wrap his daughter in a hug before telling a serious Scott in a grim voice, "Watch her back."

Scott had nodded, and it seemed like father and boyfriend shared a moment of understanding- if they all survived, Derek thought that maybe the two might get along better.

Although that was quite a large 'if'.

Derek caught the faintest traces of blood in the air- metallic and cloying, and he was on his feet immediately. But when he followed the scent, allowed his nose to direct hsi head, he was staring right at Stiles.

He gave the mage another once over, _sure_ that he hadn't been wrong, but equally as sure that Stiles wasn't injured, and the juxtaposition made his head ache. He whined low in the back of his throat, and Stiles frowned automatically before he even looked down, reading off of Derek's emotions.

Derek decided to risk bumping his nose against the mage's hip, determined to get his point across even though part of him froze instinctively at risking the mage's displeasure. That part was quickly silenced as the only part of him that had any common sense, and he found he couldn't quite breathe as he waited for Stiles' reaction.

The teen just sighed, and with one hand he rolled up the right sleeve of his red hoodie, displaying a clean, white rectangular bandage just below his elbow. Derek was momentarily pleased about how easily Stiles had understood him- his wolf panting happily at the back of his mind- but it was quickly replaced by concern.

Stiles rolled his eyes, but Derek was left with the niggling sensation of something forgotten scratching away at the back of his mind. He shook his head- the errant hope that that might encourage the information to fall into place proving fruitless- and Stiles rolled his sleeve back down to his wrist, fingers so carefully unhurried Derek just felt more certain that something was up.

"Just a cut, dude. We all get them. Shoulda been more careful with my knife." It was such a perfectly reasonable explanation that Derek was immediately suspicious. He expected insults, exaggerations, sarcasm and snark, not... _realism_.

It unnerved him, and that just made the tension he felt pre-battle worse. He would make Stiles tell him after they fought, would demand it even with no rights to the knowledge.

He knew there was something Stiles wasn't telling them, something that made the mage's eyes go dark with an unnameable emotion- but Derek just hoped that Stiles would tell them afterwards, would trust them enough even though they'd betrayed him.

Erica and Boyd were speaking softly to each other, hushed whispers of endearments that drifted across the clearing and buoyed all of their spirits, because this- this was what they were fighting for.

Beacon Hills was _theirs_.

End of story.

...

Danny could see them coming through the forest, saw hundreds of birds flee from the trees under which they walked. Could see the trails of dust and ash that drifted above them, like a damned umbrella, billowing out from the procession.

He couldn't see _them_ though, no matter how much he strained. The trees were too thick, but he knew they were coming and from where so he yelled it down to Stiles, ignoring the line of wolves spread out behind the teen.

God, it was fucking surreal.

Stiles had pulled him aside that morning, had looked at him with bright hazel eyes and wanted to know if he was sure. He wasn't a mage, or a werewolf, or a hunter, or even a banshee. He was just- just a human.

But Beacon Hills was his home. The pack were his friends. He couldn't in good conscience leave, even if- maybe especially because- he was terrified. He'd tried to explain that all to Stiles, but had felt like words were so hopelessly useless.

Stiles had understood though, had grasped his shoulder and leaned down (when did he get so tall?), and Danny wondered what had happened to the loud, awkward teen he went to school with for eleven years.

Now, watching Stiles standing tall and strong and almost regal, surrounded by the supernatural and looking eerily at home there, Danny thought privately that maybe _that_ Stiles had never been anything other than preparation for _this_ Stiles.

Regardless, he yelled down what he saw.

The Betas changed form, Stiles materialised a long silver blade in one hand, and across from him in the trees he saw Allison prepare an arrow. Across from her, completing the third point in their triangle (on this Stiles had insisted, and Danny touched the potion in his pocket) was Lydia, whose hands were terrifyingly still and calm on the gun she held on her lap.

The plumes of smoke got closer. Danny took a deep breath. He reached out and grabbed one of he and Lydia's creations from the basket of them he'd secured to the trunk of the tree as soon as he'd arrived.

He really hoped they survived this. He'd been looking forward to college.

...

Allison readied her bow. Stiles had put a spell on her arrows, so that they always returned to the quiver after reaching their targets. He'd also run through a few incantations that, if said while aiming, would kill a demon with one shot to specific points on their body.

Her hands were steady, and she said a quick prayer to anyone who would listen for them all to survive this. Danny called out a warning.

Allison lifted her bow.

...

The first demon entered the clearing at full speed, running straight past the raised grassy dais and the upturned earth where they'd shallowly reburied the body, only to pause a few feet away.

Seconds passed. The wind blew. More demons filtered in behind the first, all with various body types and colours and genders and ages- the poor bastards they were possessing long since dead.

An innumerable age passed. There were easily over a hundred of the demons now, some grinning maniacally, some blank-faced, some frowning.

Stiles took a minute step forward. A breath. They ran.

...

Peter laughed as he raced forward, meeting the demons head on, his insane laughter trailing behind him like a cape. _If you have to go out_ , he thought viciously, taking the first life of the day with a swipe of his claws across the demon's jugular, _then why not with a bang?_

...

Scott didn't like taking lives.

He liked people who hurt and threatened his family even less.

He didn't feel any guilt at all when he killed the first demon to step across his path.

...

It was chaos. Everywhere she looked it was to the pack, claws and teeth out, the demons vanishing in a swirl of particles after death and Erica had just enough time to think, _Oh, that's new_ , before she was swept away once more by the current, Boyd a familiar comfort against her back.

...

It wasn't like playing lacrosse, that was for sure. Jackson spared a second to look up at Lydia in the trees to his left and watch as she took careful aim with her gun and fired a volley of spelled bullets into the fray, knowing even as he did that he was going to leave himself open to attack but needing to know she was safe.

He turned around just in time to see a demon go down behind him with an arrow sticking out of its chest, perpendicular to its ribs, before both demon and arrow disappeared in a swirl of smoke.

He nodded a thanks to Allison and jumped back into the fight.

...

Lydia clipped the last of her bullets into a retreating demon's spine, hissing out an aggravated breath when she realised she was empty.

She caught Danny's eye and nodded once.

The tech genius grinned savagely, and Lydia echoed the smile.

The bastards were going straight back to hell.

...

Isaac kept a careful eye on Scott to his left while he fought, a good percentage of his focus on ensuring the Beta was safe. When a demon ran up behind him, Scott's attention on the two demons facing him, shimmering silver knife extended, Isaac leapt forward and broke her arm.

He killed her quickly, and Scott turned just in time to catch the throat of the demon who stood behind Isaac, preparing a fatal strike.

The two shared a heated look ( _Are you okay? I'm fine. We can do this. Thank you._ ) before standing back to back and continuing the fight, even as their energies wore thin.

Stopping wasn't an option.

...

Stiles was throwing magic out and slicing demons and creating a path of fiery destruction in his wake but the demons kept coming, pouring into the clearing, and there were easily five hundred of them now, more coming, and he didn't know how many were dead except somewhere in the vicinity of not nearly enough.

He used the second of free breath he got to lay his hand on the ground and push a _thrum_ of energy into the dirt, watched as it rippled out knocking a few dozen demons off their feet and sucking them into the ground.

They vanished beneath the roiling earth, screaming, and Stiles wavered on his feet for one moment of exhaustion before shoving it down.

Forty down. Fuck knew how many more to go.

...

There was a loud _boom_ on Derek's left, and when he glanced over he could just see the faintest traces of dust in the air, all that was left after Danny and Lydia's little experiments.

Having the two geniuses make bombs was one of Stiles' greatest ideas, and the pack were getting the luck from that now, as more and more demons disappeared in a cloud of dust as the duo dropped Molotov cocktails and homemade explosives on the unsuspecting demons. Lydia had, no doubt, run out of ammo a while ago.

Time had lost all meaning, but Derek knew it had been a while.

There was a sudden pressure at his throat as a demon attempted to crush his windpipe, a minute where his visions went black and his lungs ached for oxygen, but before he could even raise a hand to free himself the demon was flung backwards by some unseen force.

Derek gasped a breath. Between the bombs and Stiles' magic the pack had a bit more breathing space now, and for a moment it actually looked like they might be able to win without too bad of casualties.

Derek should know not to get his hopes up in situations like these.

...

Stiles was busy making sure that the pack's wards were all intact when he felt it. The faintest hint of a tendril drifting across his mind, like a fingertip trailing down his arm and leaving uncomfortable, uneasy goosebumps in its wake.

He knew immediately what it was, even before the voice began talking. You don't forget the feel of the being who killed you.

 **Stiles** , it cooed, he cooed, echoing like it was Stiles' own voice in his head rather than a demon's, like crushed ice and ash and chalk screeching down a blackboard.

 **Stiles** , he sang, breaking the name into two long syllables, the sharp 't' sound like having a blade driven through his skull, the rounded 's' trailing off into a laugh somewhere along the way.

 **You didn't really think I'd fall for the body, did you? What did you do? Spell it so that I couldn't leave? So that you could kill my human heart and have me be truly dead? Tut tut, Stiles. _You're losing your edge_**. The last was sung again, a baritone and a soprano and a thousand different voices whispering acidity into his ear about hushed secrets and terrifying dreams.

Stiles clasped his hands to his head as the screaming in his brain got louder, and among them he could hear the pack, as distinct as a heartbeat, begging for help and forcing him to squeeze his eyes shut as the pressure grew unbearable, his sword forgotten at his side.

 _You're not real_ , he thought desperately, and he opened his eyes to see the pack fighting still, more tired than he'd last seen them, hands bloody, and he hoped that the wards were still intact because he didn't have the energy to check and the screaming got louder and _louder_ and **louder** until it felt like a train crashing through his skull.

Then, abruptly, it stopped.

Stiles stood up.

He looked around.

Everything stood in stark relief, every distinct molecule sharp and precise, the cross-woven fabric of Derek's jeans harsh against his eyes and the tension in Allison's bow twanging along his nerve endings, like the world had been paused and filtered down to the bare essentials, and Stiles felt one, pure, elated moment of accomplishment before it all sped up once more.

 **Can't get rid of me that easily** , the voice told him, amused and angry and merciless, and Stiles smiled, laughed, picked up his sword again and thought, _why would I do that when you're exactly where I want you to be?_

...

Chris closed the front door with a sigh. _Hunters_ , he thought disgustedly, except that sounded far too much like a certain Stilinski for his liking.

He sighed and fell on the sofa, hands going to his temples, bones stiff and unwieldy. The hunters had demanded a more... _physical_ show of intimidation than he had originally hoped. At least Kevin from the New York branch would probably get better. Probably. The bullet hadn't hit anything important, anyway. Chris frowned at his knees. His daughter was out there right now fighting for her life. He should be there. He should be _helping_.

But Allison had Scott to help her. And Stiles. And that fluffy haired puppy kid; Isaac, that's what his name was. And Derek, who, as the Alpha, was responsible for all the people part of his pack. However much Chris hated to admit it, Allison was part of Derek's pack.

She'd be protected. She'd be _safe_.

He couldn't sit still. Agitatedly, the hunter, who, although he wasn't yet halfway through his forties felt the years more acutely than he ever had before, pushed himself to his feet. He was about to leave, his hand reaching out to flick off the lighting, but a blinking yellow light in the sudden darkness caught his attention.

Curious, Chris turned the overhead light back on, walking to the corner where the computer lay. He'd never claimed to be a genius at computers, but even he knew that when a light was flashing it meant the system wasn't fully turned off.

Most likely Stiles or Danny had simply forgotten to turn it off after the last time, but still. Call it curiousity.

Chris flicked the mouse once to bring the screen back to life, and as soon as he did he noticed the video left open in the background. It showed the room behind him, but judging by the way the light played across the desk it had been earlier, around noon, that the video had been taken.

Begrudgingly intrigued now, Chris clicked play.

Three minutes later the video was still playing in the background, Stiles' voice echoing over the speakers, as Chris ran out of the house. The revving of an engine only barely covered the mage's words, and the computer light was still blinking.

...

Derek wasn't blind. In fact, since he was a werewolf, he had more than twenty-twenty vision, but that was neither here nor there.

The point was, Derek could see, very clearly, that no matter how many demons went down or how many wounds they received, there were always more. Derek could see that they were _losing_.

He kept fighting, kept covering himself in the dust of the demons he killed, kept ignoring the way his ribs burned and his left eye stung from the steady trickle of blood that dripped down his forehead for longer than it should have before healing closed, kept pretending he didn't notice that there was no end to the demons constantly pouring into the clearing.

But they had planned for this. They _had_. He just had to wait for the signal. That was all. Then everything would be over.

...

Scott was... Scott was tired. He was exhausted. Isaac was a permanent comforting weight against his back, but his ankle was still tender and refused to hold his weight significantly for longer than a few seconds before twinging in reminder.

The woman in front of him was like all the rest- black eyes and rotting features, an animated corpse because most lower level demons didn't have the skill or energy to take a living host.

He allowed himself a moment to think, _they're not stopping_ , before shoving that thought aside. He had too many people to protect. He couldn't fail. He _couldn't_.

He'd never even gotten to apologise to Stiles.

...

Allison aimed, shot, aimed, shot, took stock of where everyone was, aimed, shot, aimed, shot, _aimed_ -

She'd fallen into the routine of battle.

There was an inch long hole in her lower leg from where a passing demon had nicked her, but she'd bandaged it with the sleeve of her jacket and she wasn't planning on bleeding out anytime soon.

Stiles was a blur of motion across the battlefield, a swirl of passing colours and a constant evolution of dust, and if she'd had time she would've stopped to appreciate his skill.

But she didn't, so she kept shooting. It was the only thing she could do.

...

Erica pressed a rushed, sloppy kiss to Boyd's slack-jawed mouth, revelling in his look of confusion before continuing to fight.

"When this is all over we should totally go out on a date!" She yelled across to him, and even though she knew the entire pack thought they were dating, they'd just never quite gotten 'round to it.

Kissing, sure, when they were both feeling particularly antsy and hormonal. Heavy petting, even. But _dating_? No. They'd never done that.

In the heat of the battle and the rush of adrenaline, she couldn't for the life of her remember why not.

"What?" Boyd yelled back, his hands wrist deep in demons, and Erica grinned.

"Be my boyfriend?" She practically screamed, and Boyd stopped, paused, and grinned wide at her, ignoring the press of bodies all around them.

"Sure!" He replied in the same tone, and Erica laughed loudly. The demon nearest to her watched their interaction like they were both insane.

"We're a work in progress." She told him, before ripping out his spine.

...

Stiles watched the battle go on around him vaguely, knowing that it was important but not really recalling why.

 **Just let go** , a soft voice insisted, but Stiles refused. It felt wrong. The entire situation felt wrong.

 **Relax** , the voice tried again, and one of his hands was lifted up without his permission and aimed at the black and grey wolf tearing into a man a few metres away.

 **He's killing him** , the voice whispered, and Stiles hesitated, palm still raised, because everything was cloudy and it was _wrong_ , he _knew_ that, and there was something he was supposed to do- something important, but he couldn't move his hands and panic rose like waves in his throat and his vision started blacking out, and he _knew_ this feeling, he did, he-

He was having a panic attack. The wolf was Derek. He was aiming at _Derek_. Stiles shoved his hand back down, his head feeling like it was tearing in two, and he remembered now, perfectly, how one of the demons had managed to get a cheap pot shot at him; not enough to hurt, but enough that there'd been a brief lapse in his mental shields.

Enough that Baalberith had crept in, insidious.

The demon had lodged in his skull, and he remembered now how that'd always been part of the plan- if not the plan he'd advertised to the pack, the plan he'd always known he had to use.

Baalberith in his head.

**C'mon, Stiles. You're not letting me have any fun. How 'bout one side of your body? No? Okay, an arm and a leg. Just an arm. A _finger_? Oh, you're such a buzzkill. I mean, I've successfully inhabited the most powerful mage in the universe, I think that's something to celebrate.**

Stiles knocked down the dozen demons nearest to him, shooting a shot of energy at the demon trying to climb up the tree to get at Danny and cleaving the demon four steps to his left attempting to sneak up on Isaac.

 _No,_ he thought resolutely, _you have nothing to celebrate. After all, while you're right in the fact that you're in my body, you've ignored one small, infinitesimal detail._

 **Oh?** The demon asked, tone dripping with sarcasm, **and what's that?**

Stiles grinned broadly. _You can't leave_. 

He threw a hand up and gave the signal. 

... 

Lydia saw it almost immediately, the shower of golden sparks in the air. There was no gap between her seeing them and her understanding what they meant- she wasn't a genius for nothing, after all. 

She quickly unscrewed the potion Stiles had prepared and started chanting. 

The potion abruptly turned a shiny, iridescent gold, much like the sparks Stiles had shot off into the air. 

She threw the potion to the ground and braced herself for impact. 

... 

Allison and Danny copied her movements exactly before bracing themselves as well. 

The ground fighters fell to their stomachs on the ground when they saw the sparks. 

The demons spared a second for confusion. It was a second too long. 

The clearing exploded in a burst of gold. 

... 

Stiles was the only one left standing upright when the dust cleared. Thousands of demons. Gone. It was an accomplishment the likes of which no one had ever seen, but all the mage felt was emptiness at what had to be done. 

Baalberith raged, trapped, inside his skull, knowing something was happening but unsure of exactly what. 

Stiles reached for his secret weapon, bending space to fetch it without moving one step in its direction. 

It was time.

... 

Derek coughed heavily, lungs gasping for clean air. 

He glanced up, and saw the desecration that used to be an army, and could only feel a sort of weary relief. The triumph and euphoria would no doubt come later. 

He shifted his head around to look for Stiles, taking stock of how the pack fared- they were all alive they were all alive theywereallalive- and all his breath whooshed out of him in relief when he saw Stiles still standing. 

Quickly, though, upon seeing the long silvery sword he held somewhat awkwardly in both hands, that shifted to concern, and Derek lifted himself to his knees just in time to catch Stiles' eye. The mage seemed to hold the sword as far away from his body as he could, a stark contrast to how he acted with all the other blades Derek had seen him hold. 

But, if he focused, the Alpha could almost sense an odd sort of sense around the sword, one that tickled vaguely at his subconscious, and suddenly he knew that it reminded him of that one bullet from a few days ago, the one that Lydia had seemed so concerned by. 

The one that hinted at wrong with every second spent in its presence. 

Derek caught Stiles' eye, and the mage seemed to mouth a simple _I'm sorry_ , at him, except that didn't make any sense, because what was Stiles to be sorry for? And slowly a cold sort of feeling that mimicked dread crept up Derek's insides, and he was on his feet and rushing forward, the air incredibly loud in his ears, the pack's celebrations muted and slow, everything in such vivid detail that he felt as if he could have counted the individual dust motes in the air. 

Stiles lifted the sword above his head, slowly, so terribly slowly, and he brought it down again, and it was like some terrible joke, some awful prank, and he brought it down, and down, and _down_ , and Derek couldn't hear anything over the rush of blood in his ears and he could feel himself saying something, yelling something, and he didn't know what it was but his mouth shaped it like _Stiles_ , his feet tripping over themselves in haste, and Stiles looked so goddamn fucking apologetic when he caught Derek's eyes again, a nanosecond of contact that was almost an entire conversation. 

Stiles brought the sword down and stabbed himself through the heart. 

Derek skidded to a stop. 

The blood stopped rushing through his ears, and he could hear the pack's exclamations and shrieks and yells, feel their pain trickle through the pack-bond and he didn't move. 

He couldn't move. 

He couldn't _move_. 

Derek blacked out. 

... 

{Stiles fiddles with the camera, making the image go blurry and then focus for a minute, before sitting down in the chair across from the monitor. His smile is easy. 

_So hey guys! if you're watching this, then I guess I'm dead! Bummer, and all. Sorry about that. It wasn't-_ He stops, breathes, continues after a beat. _I never meant to get you guys hurt by this, honestly, and I meant to keep my distance this whole time, but I guess I'm not as strong as everyone thinks I am. So, you know, I'm sorry that my death's gonna hurt you. Is that conceited? It sounds a little conceited. Anyway._

_I guess you're wondering about... a few things. First of all, nothing I told you was a lie. Just- a part of the truth. For what it's worth. To properly explain things, I gotta explain about the other time that I died. It's not an easy story, mind you. It's pretty convoluted, magic wise, and my existence right now breaks a whole lot of rules previously imagined unbreakable, but- yeah. Here I am. Or, was. Sorry about that again, by the way._

_It was pretty soon after I left here that my mentor told me something. It was by accident, but she basically told me that a vision I'd been having was going to come through. It was a vision of Beacon Hills. Burning. So, like the prodigal son that I am, I couldn't let that happen. It took me a while- several weeks, a few hundred cups of coffee, a couple of broken rules, and one of two illegal meetings, but I eventually found it. A protection spell from the late twelfth century. One, mind you, that was said to be able to hold off a demon._

_If you think it sounds too good to be true, you'd be right. I'm gonna skip all the boring stuff in between, the tests and the practice and the fine tuning, but suffice it to say that finding the damn spell was the least arduous thing I had to do for it. But that's besides the point._

_The point is that a few months after I left I snuck out to the grounds of the place I was staying at midnight- for pure theatricality, mind you- to preform the spell. Bibbity-bobbity-boo, Beacon Hills is protected. Except for one, small thing. The spell require my life in exchange._

_The only reason I survived it is because a friend saw me sneak out, followed me, and manually kept my heart beating until my magic kicked in. Honestly, I'm still fuzzy on the details, because heartbeat or no I should've been dead. Magic is binding. But there's the saying about the gift-horse and the mouth, and really I was just relieved I was still alive._

_Then, demon. You guys know about that particular shit storm. After I died, and killed the demon, for some reason the spell that had taken my life the first time decided to give it back, destroying the protective boundary around Beacon Hills in the process. Think of it like this; the first time I died I left part of my life-force powering the spell around Beacon Hills, and when I died the second time that rushed back into its rightful place in my body, leaving the spell with no power source._

_Since no one ever survived the spell before, it was an unprecedented side effect. You get used to being a commodity after a while._

_So I came back to let the boundary up again, and then, demon. Again. I figured since I killed him last time be wouldn't be happy, and I was right. My best guess is he'll ignore the corpse and head straight for me, trying to posses my body. I cut a symbol into my arm that should stop him from fleeing- basically, where I go, he goes._

_If I die, he dies. You see where this is going. It's a good plan. Not one of my best, but I didn't exactly have loads of time. I'm banking on the fact that I have an unresistable body. Call it what you will; arrogance, experience, intelligence, but I know I'm far too good of a catch for him to let pass a second time._

_He will try and control me of course. I have full belief in my own abilities, but just in case I did give you all special wards. If you were marvelling over how little you got hurt during the battle, that might be why._

_So there you have it. Should answer all of your questions. A few passing notes; Lydia, I'm so sorry. You know what to do. I'll make it up to you in the next life, promise. I can be your official slave instead of just your best friend. Scott, I swear to god if you and Isaac haven't gotten your shit together when you all die I will kill you again. Isaac, yes they both like you. You're an awesome person. Allison, good luck dealing with those too. You'll need it. Danny, have fun being the sane one. Don't let them drive you mad, they tend to do that. Jackson, you're a grade-A asshole, but you love my best friend. Watch over her. Boyd, if you hurt Erica I'll rip your heart out through your ass. Erica, same for you. I don't know if you guys are together yet, but if you're not then you should be. Peter, you're insane and I love it. Keep up the good work and try not to kill anyone who doesn't deserve it (and no, you're not a good judge of that. Find a third party, preferably someone with an actual moral compass that doesn't point permanently to grey)._

_Derek- I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry. You have no idea. You deserve better than me. Find someone and fall in love. Make dozens of little werewolf babies with intense eyebrows. Be happy, man. For me._ Stiles scrubs at something in his eyes, voice gone thick. 

_Just- take care, all right? All of you. I'll be pissed if I see any of you for at least seventy, eighty years. Grow old and bald and surround yourself in whatever makes you smile. Okay, I'm getting sappy now, I'll stop. Live long and prosper, and all that jazz. And don't touch my stuff. Seriously. Don't. They could seriously hurt you. Just don't._

The video goes black.} 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's late, I'm exhausted, major character death, next chapter up soon, thank you all a million times, disclaimer, no beta, saw Beyond and Suicide Squad and both were amazing, hope you enjoyed, lots of love, H.S.F


	18. Epilogue- yes, I am aware that is a lazy ending title, and no, I don't care, Scott. It's my autobiography, I can write what I want. What do you mean you don't think anyone would buy it?! What's not to love?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the end. Say goodbye, hug your loved ones, and hang on for the ride. The demon's dead, and the pack mourn- but who knows what's around the corner?

They carry Stiles’ body back to the house. His eyes are closed; Derek wonder vacantly who closed them because Stiles sure as hell didn’t, because Derek was watching the whole time, because Stiles was-

There’s this aching hollow behind Derek’s ribs where a working heart should be, and it almost feels as if Derek was the one stabbed, as if it was his heart pierced, not-

He doesn’t want to think about that.

They’re halfway back to the house- a heartbroken solemn procession, panic filled and frozen and incapable of speech- when Derek hears this awful hiccupping sob- and he blearily lifts his head to investigate only to realise that it came from _him_ , and he’s never felt this out of control but Stiles’ pale long-fingered hands dangle like cut strings from his motionless body, and, really, Derek thought he’d already reached the peak capacity for pain.

Then they’re in the living room, somehow, the journey lost somewhere in the deep recesses of the Alpha’s psyche, and they lay Stiles down gently on the threadbare couch, so less vibrant than it had seemed last night, amid the laughter and the happy smell wrapping itself around Derek’s heart and the sensation of pack as he hadn’t known in years filling him up from the inside out.

The room still smells of Stiles and lightning and drunken jokes and the memories of pack stifle him until Derek can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t see past the meandering blue veins that run underneath Stiles’ cold skin because Stiles is dead he’s dead he’s dead he’sdeadhe’sdead.

Isaac is sobbing uncontrollably in the corner of the room, arms wrapped around his knees, rocking back and forth, looking like the world has crashed around him, and Derek hasn’t seen him this bad since his last nightmare where his father was still alive.

Scott is muttering to himself, fists clenched and blood from his claws dripping down his wrists and onto the floor, staining the carpet, and if Stiles was here- if Stiles wasn’t lying stiff and cold on the same couch they’d been sitting on just a few hours ago- if Derek had been smarter or quicker or better- Derek stops himself. Thinking like that helps no one- least of all Stiles.

Allison’s still wearing that same mirror of shock that she’d worn when Stiles first fell- like she’s expecting Stiles to jump up any moment, make a joke, like the emotion’s so strong it’s cancelled everything else out. Derek can relate. He’d wandered around Beacon Hills in a daze for the rest of his school life after the fire.

Erica's pale- almost as pale as Stiles is, and that leaves a sick, unfeeling burn deep down in Derek, like an eerie sort of jealousy, because Erica doesn't _deserve_ to look so broken, she isn't the one dead, she isn't the one gone, what gives her the _right_ -

Boyd hasn't spoken since Stiles hit the ground.

Danny's pacing, looking like he wants to do something- but he's human, so woefully unprepared for any of this. Derek thinks he should feel bad about that. He _knows_ he should.

But he doesn't. He's not his mom. He's not Laura. He's not _Stiles_.

He doesn't feel anything, just this sick plummeting sensation where his stomach should be.

Deaton never came back to the house- left with only an aborted and rushed goodbye, hands wrapping his coat closer to himself as if to protect from some frozen epiphany, something that might have been useful but came far too late, far too slow.

Lydia stands as still as stone in the doorway to the kitchen, face closed off. Jackson stands by her side, hand clasped tight around his mate's, and Derek feels something thick and hot shift inside him in envy or jealousy or anger- he doesn't know.

Time doesn't really pass- at least not as the laws of physics dictate it should. The seconds between Isaac's sobs take years, great heaving breaths, but suddenly it's dark inside and Derek has no idea how it happened, standing as he is directly over Stiles- Stiles' _body_ \- eyes not leaving the teenager' closed ones.

There's a car driving up outside, the slam of a car door, heavy footsteps pounding up the wooden porch stairs, the squeak of the front door being shoved open- Stiles mentioned it in passing yesterday, drunk and loose-tongued, about how they _really should oil it, because it's not like you guys need the early warning to be aware of intruders, and come on, guys, it's really annoying, how can you live with it_ , in a whining drawl, and it's funny because he couldn't, he couldn't, he couldn't-

And then Chris Argent is standing in the living room, a few steps back from Stiles- Stiles' _body_ \- and Derek can't prevent the growl that rolls out of his mouth between pinched lips, the rumbling echo picked up by the pack before anyone even notices the hunter has arrived. Even Allison swings her bow around to aim at the intruder, and her sights only lower a little when she recognises her father.

Instinct tells him- tells _them_ \- that Chris is not pack, should not be allowed near an injured pack member (not injured, dead, because Stiles is dead and oh god Derek can't _breathe_ ), and Argent is quick to back up, even as he can't seem to drag his eyes away from Stiles' prone form.

Derek's wolf doesn't like it, and if Stiles wasn't lying behind him he'd be across the room, hand wrapped around the hunter's throat, but protection comes first, and Derek doesn't think he could leave his place safe guarding Stiles- Stiles' _body_ \- even if he wanted to, not when his instincts insist that he _protect_. His instincts don't seem to have gotten the message that Stiles is dead.

_Stiles is dead, he's dead, he's dead, Derek failed, he failed, god, Stiles is **dead**_.

Everyone else is pack, everyone else is _safe_. But Chris Argent is not pack, has never been pack, will never be pack- Allison might be because of Scott and Isaac and even Lydia, but her father is far too old and set in his ways for Derek's wolf to ever accept him. It eases something in him, actually, to see his pack standing as one against a possible enemy.

Logically Derek knows that Chris is not Kate, that the hunter would never hurt Stiles, but wolves don't think in terms of logic. It's simple, really. Chris isn't pack, Stiles isn't at one hundred percent capacity (he's dead he's dead and the two words are like a never ending mantra in Derek's head) and the Alpha can't let him near Stiles. Near Stiles' body,

Chris seems to get it (the perks of your daughter being sickeningly in love with a werewolf) and he's quick to leave, aware that it is not his place to grieve. Not now. Not here.

Someone has turned on the light, more for the humans' benefit than the wolves. Stiles is still as he fell- they had tried to remove the sword from his chest but it had squelched and stuck and Boyd had stumbled away to get sick in the bushes and Derek knows that that sound will be on repeat in his nightmares along with burning flames.

Derek's pretty sure he's crying. His lips taste too salty for him to be entirely dry eyed.

Suddenly the air behind him ripples, like waves that buffet the harsh curl of his shoulders and Derek spins around ignoring the minute protest of his muscles over the movement after hours of stillness. There's a man standing in the centre of the room, haze locked on Stiles, expression tastefully blank, but the smell of his anguish lies thick and cloying in the air. Derek growls loudly, enraged at the stranger's interruption but also a strange sort of grateful because they could have stayed there in a trapped tableau for far longer than they did if they hadn't been interrupted.

"Who are you?" He asks brusquely, voice saved from being a bitter croak from inaction and grief only be werewolf healing. The intruder doesn't answer, just swings his blue eyes to Derek's face, and somewhere along the way it gets lost in translation from impassiveness into a glare so sharp Derek is honestly surprised he isn't bleeding.

"Are you Derek Hale?" The stranger asks instead of answering, in a voice strangely pitched, too high to truly be threatening but so full of venom it almost makes Derek flinch regardless.

"Yes." Is the Alpha's cautious answer, and then the stranger's face shifts into pure, unadulterated rage and his fist is whipping forward to connect with Derek's face in a solid punch that knocks the breath out of the wolf and belays the strangers fragile, delicate form.

Erica, Boyd and Isaac scramble to their feet, instinct to protect their Alpha too strong to ignore, and even Scott and Jackson shift uncomfortably, their instinct just as strong as the others'. The only ones at all unaffected are Lydia and Danny- Danny too new and unfamiliar, and Lydia too lost in her own head.

The stranger levels a glare at all of them, but as soon as his gaze lands on Stiles' motionless body his face crumples into an emotion so strong Derek feels as if he's infringing on a private moment. He takes one step forward as if to touch Stiles' shoulder, but is immediately stopped by the pack, eyes glowing, barbaric, animalistic growls tripping from grief-stricken throats.

"You don't touch him." Derek says through a mouthful of fangs, blood rushing fast and hard through his system, adrenaline raising his proverbial hackles. The stranger bares his flat-edged teeth right back, and his eyes flash a deep crimson red. Derek almost takes a step back.

"Vampire," he hisses- the pack pause, and is the silence is confusion tinged hostility, but Derek is suddenly so terribly proud of his pack for holding their ground even when they have no idea what's going on. It's enough to make him think that maybe he didn't completely fail, maybe he taught them enough to survive, and that's all he really ever wanted for them.

The man- vampire- rolls blood crazed eyes and hisses, lips pulling up around suddenly sharp canines. "If you want him dead than by all means continue standing in my way."

The room is shocked into silence. Lydia is the one who steps forward, face sharpened into an icicle, and the pack part for her like a flock of frightened birds, like a crowd of people who know something is different than they'd believed all along.

"Lydia," the vampire allows, the tiniest smile on his face, and he shrugs off the pack's restraining arms as if insulted by their contact with his skin. "I wish I could say I was pleased to see you, but present circumstances don't exactly lend themselves to pleasantries."

Lydia's face remains stoic, unsmiling, and there's an eerie sharp thrill of fear that runs down Derek's spine at the expression on her face- the Alpha is suddenly, unrepentantly glad that he is not on the banshee's bad side.

"What did you mean, A?"

Her voice is strength and steel and the promise of pain, and she's not screaming of the deaths her powers foresee but her voice drips with it none the less, and Derek thinks privately that Stiles wasn't the only one who grew up and changed while he was away.

He shouldn't feel so proud.

The vampire- _A_ \- tilts his head questioningly, and Derek can practically hear Stile' mocking voice in his head about dogs and genus and monsters- but Stiles is dead and Derek will never hear his voice again- phantom fingers trailing the Alpha's jawline and Stiles' laughter heady in his ears like melted caramel.

"You're the one who called me here, Lydia," he reminds her gently, and that doesn't sound like the Lydia Derek knows but Stiles is dead and the world is inside out and upside down and maybe he's not the only one affected.

Lydia doesn't move, a stone cold marble statue, face unforgiving, but instead says, "Can you bring him back?"

Derek doesn't dare breathe, doesn't dare move, doesn't dare hope, because what if, what if, _what if_ \- except that little voice in the back of his head murmurs that people don't just come back from the dead.

_Peter did_ , a different traitorous voice murmurs, and Derek's head whips around so fast searching for his uncle that if he were human he'd get whiplash- but Peter's not there. In fact, Derek hasn't seen him since the fight, since the end, since the jolt of pain filled hysteria ran straight through his heart and out the other side.

'A' says nothing.

Gruffly, impatiently, so damn _hopefully_ , Derek asks- _demands_ , really-, "Can you?"

Utter and complete silence.

Scott, who had started looking interested once more in conversation, the smell of his hope slowly drifting out from his unclenched hands, leaks bitter desolate tears. Erica swallows loudly. Isaac sinks further into hunched shoulders. Jackson- even Jackson- curses bitterly and throws a cup at the wall.

It shatters into a thousand tiny pieces, falling down like snowflakes or stars, kaleidoscopes of rainbow colour that tinkle as they hit the hard wood panelling of the floor.

Lydia's unflinching stare burns a hole in the vampire, as powerful as a wooden stake, and about as effective.

"I don't know." The stranger answers finally, and Derek's heart begins soaring in his chest, ignoring how hard he tries to suppress it, because that's not a no, it's a maybe, means there's a possibility for something he hadn't dared let himself hope for in case it turned out to be a lie.

The vampire shuffles his feet awkwardly, the first truly human action Derek has seen of him- and says, "I have to touch him."

No one makes a joke. No one finds it funny. The pack look to Lydia then, for permission, and decorum and pack law says that they should look towards Derek, towards their _Alpha_ , but he has no claim towards Stiles, no hold except for one drunken, precious night that the Alpha can't get out of his head.

Lydia nods. The pack move aside to allow the stranger access. Derek- who had previously retreated back to Stiles' side, drawn into Stiles' orbit like a planetary body to a star (and it terrifies him, because Stiles shines so bright even in death and Derek's never been any good at avoiding things that glow and burn, even when logic says run in the other direction)- is the last to move, the vamp standing only a foot away, the Alpha his last obstacle, Derek gaining a perverse sort of pleasure from knowing that he is the larger of the two.

"If you hurt him-" he threatens, which is pointless, it _is_ , he _knows_ this, because Stiles is already dead and gone and the only thing keeping him together is the knowledge that he might not be and that his pack depend on him.

The vampire inclines his head, not in respect but in acknowledgement, and, Derek suspects, no small amount of impatience- Derek reluctantly acquiesces to Lydia's silent command and moves to stand at Stiles' feet.

The vampire steps forward, eyes fixed on Stiles' pale face, and reaches one hand forward to rest on the teenager's cold forehead before closing his eyes, and there's a sickening lurch somewhere low in Derek's abdomen when he realises their skin tones match.

It's fitting, he thinks, amid the despair and hope and the desire to puke until Stiles' eyes stop appearing at the back of his eyelids every time he blinks. Two dead things.

For a few long, interminable, unending minutes nothing happens- but then the vampire gasps and withdraws his hand so quickly it's as if he's been burned, and Derek gets the feeling that if the undead could cry the stranger's red eyes would be overflowing with tears.

A seems to pull himself together, hands fiddling with the hem of his thick black coat as if for protection, and his voice only just shakes when he murmurs a low, "If he doesn't wake up in the next twenty-four hours call me. Don't take out the sword. It's the only thing keeping him alive."

He wraps his barely trembling arms briefly around Lydia, squeezing her close as if needing something to hold, before disappearing with as little fanfare as he'd arrived- and it says so much about Derek's life that he doesn't think teleportation even classifies as strange anymore.

The Alpha wonders, and is terrified of, what exactly caused a _vampire_ \- arguably the most reckless of the supernatural creatures- to be so shook. He's pretty sure he doesn't want to know.

Eventually, everyone settles back into their original positions for the long haul, the air only slightly less tumultuous than it had been before the unexpected arrival, a faint twinge of hope hanging like salvation in the air.

Twenty-four hours. If Derek believed in a God, now would be the time to pray. Instead he just sends pleas and begs into the universe, promises and hope and- and love. He's in love with Stiles. If Derek cared to protect himself, he'd shut that feeling down right now, prepare for disappointment and heart break, but he doesn't care that Stiles doesn't love him back as long as Stiles is _alive_ to not love him back.

_Please_.

They wait.

...

He is burning alive. It’s pitch black and dripping malice and burning and he can’t see anything but he can feel bitter fingers trailing painful icy paths down his arms, his legs, his head- he tries to shake them off, to thrash, to scream, to beat endlessly at the frozen walls of his prison cage- but he can’t move his fingers, lacks the spindly limbs and fluid muscles that should be so easily manipulated; and he’s cryingscreaming- or at least he’s trying to, but although he can feel large globs of warm moisture dripping down his face and scarring blood scarlet trails down his rib cage, and can feel his throat protesting at the exertion of yelling himself hoarse, his mouth is firm shut, his eyes as dry as the desert.

The darkness whispers and coerces and pleads mockingly- hushed whimpers of _please, help me, ****please_ and _just let go, you know you want to, it’s easy, just let go and you’ll get peace and rest finally, just **let go**_ \- and he can’t remember who he is or- or was, or how to form sentences other than begs for mercy and help that he knows viscerally, with complete certainty, is not coming, is never coming, because he’s alone- alonealonealonealonealome the word like the tempo beat of his non-existent heart that thunders like applause in his non-existent ears that he _knows_ isn’t how it should be- the word loses all meaning beyond the two syllables that morph and shift and change into the sharp ‘p’ of pain and please and panic and phantom and- and- and…

Pack. One syllable. Harsh ending, like attack, like go back, like- He can’t remember. He can’t _remember_. He’s sure it’s something obvious. He’s sure he knew it once. He’s sure- he’s sure-

Lingering blackened nails scrapping across the harsh panes of his stomach- insidious whispers that he should just _give up, give up, give **up**_ \- the blood dripping from the side of his mouth, lips sealed, his sounds and cries and begs echoing in his head over and over and over and _over_ -

He screams and knows that nobody can hear him.

...

When he gathers the fortitude to once again enter the house full of aggrieved, anxious werewolves- Derek is loathe to admit it, but it’s relatively quickly; he supposes he’d be quick too if his daughter was involved- Chris brings his laptop and shows them the video. 

Scott rips apart the table. 

Allison puts three arrows into the wall. 

Erica punches several walls in quick succession. 

Isaac still hasn’t moved. 

Boyd digs his nails into his thigh until the ground beneath his feet is slippery with his blood. 

Danny promptly sits down with his laptop, hacks into some asshole’s high security bank account and donates all of the money to charity. 

Lydia shakes with a rage so potent- driven also, Derek suspects, by helplessness, which Lydia detests- Jackson has to hold her back from burning the entire forest and rebuilt Hale house down. 

Peter still hasn’t appeared. Derek should care. 

They wait. 

… 

He’s being flayed alive and torn apart and bitten scratched stabbed mocked; crying and cursing and screaming and laughing, smiling, Derek’s lips too far from his own, Lydia’s warm arm comfortingly wrapped around hunched up shoulders, Isaac’s echoing rippling laughter that heals something in him he’d always imagined to be broken, Scott’s strange lopsided grin when Stiles beats him at Mario Kart yet _again, Scott, damn, don’t you know how to drive? You’re supposed to avoid the mushrooms, genius! I am supreme ruler of the universe! Werewolf skills are useless against the might that is Stiles!_ , Allison’s savage smile when he tells her that how to kill demons, Erica’s sharp elbow digging into his laughing side, Boyd’s quiet understanding when they sit in silence, Jackson’s snarky retorts that lack venom, no matter how hard the ex-kanima tries to convince himself otherwise, Peter’s sardonic, sarcastic smirk stretched from ear to ear, Derek’s voice, soft and low and pitched just so that there’s a direct route to his libido- the wolf’s hands, his stupid hair and ridiculous teeth and small, private smile that rings every self-preserving instinct he possesses because he refuses to fall in love with the failwolf even though he’s intimately aware that it’s far too late for denial now- 

And suddenly there’s a name, and _Stiles_ is being yanked upwards and dragged somewhere new, needle points tearing at his skin and demanding his return- the darkness hissing and then he’s falling- tumbling head over heels over head, face first, flying, slamming into something solid the world tilting on its axis breathing in harsh sudden breaths and the air tastes like salvation. 

Stiles breathes. 

… 

Derek feels it when Stiles comes back to life- like a rippling jolt through the pack bond, a swift pulse of life on the edge of his consciousness, like the tumultuous upending of his stomach on a roller coaster. 

He’s standing in the sitting room in the point three seconds it takes Stiles to sit up, heaving, scrabbling at his chest like a man demented, breaths harsh and eyes wild reminding Derek of nothing other than a cornered animal. 

The pack try and hold him down, lying three abreast on his arms to stop him dislodging the sword, the vampire’s dire warnings clear and forefront in their minds. There’s no time for relief, no really, not when Stiles is yelling disjointed phrases and shaking and slamming his body back against the couch cushions. 

Derek knows he should help, knows his superior strength would be of great use in preventing the mage causing himself even more damage, but all he can see are the repeated words- _He’s alive He’s alive He’s alive-_ running through his mind and suddenly he can breathe again. 

... 

There are hands holding him down, restraining him, burning, and StilesHeMageSon shakes and twists and turns and pushes desperately, yellingscreaming, the pain in his chest building like a crescendo, and voices whispering malicious words of attempted comfort in his ears. 

He knows something is different, now, because his voice rumbles through bone and sinew and muscle to bounce around his brain rather than the other way around, but his heart feels like it’s being rendered in two and he desperately fumbles at his shirt, tearing at his skin, the voices getting even louder in response to his efforts. 

He wants to yell at them an endless litany of stops and pleas, and then he hears his voice aloud and is reminded suddenly that he is no longer helpless, that here in the real world he is strong, that he doesn’t have to endure the pain. 

With a quick flick of his wrists where they’re shoved up to his chest he feels all of his attackers go flying back, hears the heavy thuds of their bodies hitting plaster, and his fingers are instantly reaching for his chest, reaching around to feel the blade that rests there. 

He can’t think- doesn’t know- can’t remember how it happened over the relentless thrum of pain in his veins, but the how doesn’t matter. 

To resounding cries of dismay, StilesFriendSon is able, finally, to pull the sword from his heart, can feel the brief gap between seconds where his brain stops, but then his heart pulses blood again, mending itself with magic and will, and now Stiles can think again, can focus on something other than the burn of his injuries. 

He’s lying on- on a couch. Black cushions. Familiar. _Derek’s_ couch. Which means- yes. When Stiles looks around, he is lying in the Hale House living room, the same grey walls and wood panelling. 

When he tries to remember how he got here, all he can recall is their fight, the tremor of magic ain his veins, the way Derek’s eyes looked as he selfishly stole his last sight, the feeling of the damp grass against the skin of his hand when he fell to the ground, and- oh. 

It all comes rushing back, along with pure, unadulterated panic, and Stiles falls to the ground when he tries to move, draws himself upwards, stumbles through open doors and collapsing to his knees on the grass, hands digging deep into the soft earth, desperate chimes falling from his lips as he seeks out the magic that sent him to his grave. 

It’s with a relieved cry that he finds it, strong as he could ever have dreamed, and he slumps back onto his heels, all of his hastily gathered energy depleting once he’s sure the danger’s passed. 

Gentle hands wipe the hair from his forehead, and Stiles doesn’t raise his head as he feels strong arms lift him from his place on the ground, though he grumbles slightly at the tension sitting thick in the room he’s carried into. 

“S’fine,” He mumbles, exhaustion slurring his words slightly, “Spell worked. ‘S safe now.” 

If anything that ratchets the level of unease and discontent even higher, but the fabric beneath his head is soft and before he knows it Stiles is drifting off, the faint smell of Lydia’s perfume winding its way to his brain. 

He sinks further into the couch and falls into a dreamless sleep for the first time in months. 

… 

When Stiles wakes up next, it is to the pack’s concerned faces, a strange amalgamation of recent grief, confusion, fear, relief- everything, and it makes his head hurt. 

They’re quick to ask questions, always touching him in some way while he answers, long ones to the easy questions and short to the ones he’d rather not answer. 

“Yes, I feel fine.” Lie. He feels like shit warmed up. But he’s been dead before, he can deal with it. And group therapy’s never really been his thing. 

“Yes, the demon’s gone.” True, as far as he can tell. Which, since he can’t even make it four steps without needing support, admittedly isn’t very far. He wouldn’t allow himself even this brief respite if he thought Baalberith was still out there, though. 

“No, I don’t know how.” Lie. He’s got a fairly good idea what happened, actually- as good as he can manage without checking further, and really, he’s in no position to be looking a gift horse in the mouth. Best he can figure, Baalberith and he ended up fighting for possession of his body, and the loser got tied to the spell. He’s glad he won. Stiles shivers to imagine what the demon would have done with power like his. If he’d thought there was even the least chance… 

“Yes, this was my plan.” … Lie. 

Erica shakes with anger and no little amount of grief at his reply. “Why didn’t you tell us? We thought you were dead!” All of the pack imitate her, eyes wide and glossy with fearful hope, and betrayal at his silence of his plans. 

This is the part where Stiles lies. Where he begins to distance himself from them again, preparing for departure, where he undoes the last few months of companionship. He’s ready for it, even, and opens his mouth for a flippant reply, but what comes out instead is, 

“Because I didn’t know this would happen!” And he curses himself for sounding angry, for sounding scared, for sounding exactly like the fragile human he is, even if has enough power to flatten a mountain if he wanted to. 

The world goes silent. The pack still. Stiles watches as realisation dawns on Erica’s face, on all of their faces, and he turns his away to as to avoid the fall out. 

Derek, who has been awfully quiet since Stiles woke up, speaks up now, voice low. 

“What does that mean?” 

Stiles refuses to cower away. It was his mistake that brought the demon to this plane, and it was up to him to fix it. He will not be ashamed for that. 

He still can’t quite look them in the eye. 

“It means that the chances of my survival were… low.” 

“How low?” Lydia asks, with a voice that could cut a man in half, and she too breaks her silence now where before she said nothing. 

Stiles shrugs helplessly, and if anything the banshee gets more focused and determined with his non-answer. 

“How low, Stiles?” She demands, and Stiles finally meets her searching gaze with an unwavering one of his own. What is his life compared to an entire town? 

What is his life compared to the lives of those he cares about? 

“Less than 0.03%.” Lydia curses something fierce in Latin, and walks over to where he lies up against the cushions. 

“You bastard.” She tells him matter-of-factly, eyes thick with the emotion her voice lacks, and she grips his jaw between sharp, manicured nails to look him straight in the eye. “If you ever do something like that again, I’ll kill you myself, you hear me? As soon as you can walk we’re going for retail therapy, and you are buying me so much clothes. A whole new wardrobe, in fact. And shoes. A lot of shoes. And then you are going to write to your contact in Paris and get me tickets to the premiere of every new film out this year. And I’m taking Jackson. Even to the sci-fi ones you love. And you owe me so many foot-rubs for this.” 

Her voice breaks just slightly at the end, and Stiles smiles lopsidedly at her. “Sure, Lyds. Whatever you want.” 

Lydia trembles once before wrapping her arms around him, fists tight at his back, face pressed into his neck. Stiles does the same, leaden arms eager to follow his commands for once, his nose pressed into perfect strawberry blonde hair, only slight disarray to convey the strength of her emotions. 

She releases him finally, discreetly wiping at her eyes, and Stiles does the same with the edge of the blanket beneath him. Composed once more, the banshee draws back to stand by Jackson’s side, the wolf quick to clasp her hand in his. 

The room is quiet for a moment. This time, it’s Derek who is the first to speak. 

“You can’t do that again, Stiles.” The Alpha is deadly serious, but Stiles can’t help it- he snorts. 

“Can you honestly say you’d have done different?” He asks, with not a small touch of irony. 

When Derek tries to protest, Stiles is quick to cut him off. “No, you couldn’t. If it comes down to it, of course I’m going to give my life for Beacon Hills. I can’t allow other people to die when I could do something to stop it. But even excluding the fact that Baalberith would have wiped Beacon Hills off the map, and then the rest of the world, did you think for a second I would let him anywhere _near_ any of you? There is only a handful of people in this world I actually care for- and I will _gladly_ die before I let any of them die because of something I can prevent. And if this happens again? If it’s between my life and the lives of those I love? Hell yeah I’m going to sacrifice myself. And I’ll do it _gladly_ because it means the survival of more important people than me.” 

Speech over, Stiles sits back into the couch. Derek’s face filters through a variety of different expressions, before settling on fierce. 

“And what about the people who you are important to?” The Alpha asks, lowered head giving away more than he probably meant to, and Stiles forces his eyes to find a different target than the man he loves, the man that took death for him to realise his feelings for. 

“They’d get over it.” The mage says, thrown by the strength of his own reaction- hope and terror and guilt that he shouldn’t feel-, certain that his way was the only one that ended in the pack and his dad alive, and if that means his death then bring it on. 

Derek closes his eyes briefly before leaving the room, the sensation of his grief grating at the mage’s nerves- and Stiles is reminded suddenly of his own selfishness. He shouldn’t have dragged them into this at all, shouldn’t have even spoken to them when he returned. He still shouldn’t. This was a mistake. 

It is a mistake. 

Maybe he can still fix it. 

… 

Exactly 38 hours after returning from the dead, Stiles Stilinski leaves Beacon Hills. 

He leaves behind an aimless pack, heartbroken Alpha, and a banshee who hopes he knows what he’s doing. 

Four miles down the interstate, Peter Hale wipes the dirt of his knees and listens to his nephew’s pining absent-mindedly while congratulating himself on finding Stiles’ stash of magic. While he’s fairly sure coming back was entirely the mage’s own doing, he likes to think he played a small part. He’s tired of Beacon Hills though. Maybe he’ll try France. He’s heard it’s lovely this time of year. 

Heart too weak to teleport, Stiles drives straight to his apartment in New York without stopping once. 

Once there it takes herculean effort to exit his car. 

His friends are quick to his aid, and proceed in thoroughly chewing him out for his recklessness. They can tell something is wrong and don’t just mean the six inch silvery scar directly over his heart. Love leaves no physical proof, but they’re his friends. And he’s talked about everyone else _but_ Derek, at this point. They’re not stupid people. Some of them are actually geniuses. Stiles may have a type. 

Five weeks, four physical therapy sessions, three hours of sleep, two interventions and one phone call later, Stiles Stilinski drives back into Beacon Hills. 

He is on a mission. 

… 

**Epilogue**  
Derek sits down at the kitchen counter, newspaper in hand, ears automatically listening for sound even though he knows the house is empty. 

The pack have drifted slightly since- _that night_ -, and the light drizzle outside perfectly captures Derek’s restless mood, five weeks since, his world slowly starting to return to its usual pattern. 

He skims through the news section, almost smiles at the comics, ignores the sports- his determination to continue reading newspapers in this digital age is something he’s been lightly teased for before, but it reminds him of his mom at the table while his dad cooked breakfast, and besides, he’s alone now. 

He can do whatever he wants. 

He ignores the ache in his heart at the thought. 

He’s just reached the personal ads section when he sees it. Big block capitals. A simple note. 

It reads, “SOURWOLF. I TOLD YOU I’D PUT IT IN THE NEWSPAPER. SORRY IT TOOK SO LONG. –S.” 

Derek doesn’t dare let himself hope, but his treacherous heart ignores his misgivings for elation. There’s a sudden knock on the door, and he tries to be smooth as he opens it, just in case. 

Stiles is standing there, soaked to the bone, dark shadows under his eyes, pale skin patched with red splotches. Derek doesn’t say anything, and Stiles’ nervous grin melts what little reserve he may have had left- he had none, just to be clear, but pride demanded he pretend. 

“Go out with me, Derek?” Stiles asks- demands, really, eyes intent, and Derek should say no for his own well-being. He and Stiles are nothing alike. They argue like lawyers in a court room, wielding words like knives. They constantly snip at each other, sarcastic little remarks that shouldn’t make either of them smile but always do. Stiles lives in New York, Derek in beacon Hills. Stiles is only _eighteen_. Derek can’t deal with the people he loves being in danger, while Stiles’ entire life is rooted in danger and adventure. And the rainy backdrop is too much of a movie cliché to even _consider_ accepting. 

And Derek knows all this. Knows they’ve both hurt each other. They’ve both fucked up. Knows there is only one way this can end. 

But he still wants to kiss Stiles senseless, regardless of everything else. Stiles stands, wet and cold and shaking- though Derek is fairly sure magic would have worked to keep him warm and dry- and he knows suddenly that Stiles only did this for dramatic effect. 

All logic dictates he should turn Stiles down and close the door. Derek has avoided logic before and gotten hurt from it. This should be the moment he learn. The moment when he stops repeating his mistakes. This is what logic demands. 

Screw logic. 

Derek reaches forward at almost the same time as Stiles, and they collide like opposing waves, like wild animals fighting for dominance, like everything Derek has ever wanted. 

It’s too hard and too long in coming and far too messy, full of bites and snarls as the rain slicks the way, and it is undeniably, ironically, _stupidly_ perfect, though he will never tell Stiles as such. 

“Is that a yes?” Stiles gasps when they break apart, smile so bright it burns a path straight down through Derek’s heart, and logic says he should hate fire but all he can do is whisper, “yes, yes, yes,” against Stiles’ lips as answer, ignoring how vulnerable he sounds because if there is anyone who can understand it is Stiles. 

Their next kiss is softer, gentle, no less heart shattering for it, and Derek can feel his entire world being flipped upside down again and he can’t even bring himself to care. 

“You want to come in?” He asks, far too late, aware that both of them are already soaked to the skin and going indoors now will solve nothing unless they get changed, and he’s nearly ninety percent sure that Stiles will shake his head ruefully and explain that he’s only staying in town for a few hours, not forever, because that’s what makes sense. 

Stiles only smiles and nods, lips once again chasing Derek’s, and Derek is stupidly irrationally happy that he is not the only one who has forgotten logic somewhere along the way. 

He pulls Stiles with him through the door and shuts it firmly behind them. 

He’s willing to give them a shot if Stiles is. He thinks, maybe, they might even be good. 

If they don’t kill each other first. 

Derek can’t wait. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. It’s done. Finally. One year and three months after starting this story, it’s finished. I’ve got to admit, there were times when I wondered if it’d ever get done.
> 
> Okay, to start with, I’d like to apologize for the long, _long_ delay, and I’d give you a reason but the only one I have was that life was kicking my ass. So. Yeah.
> 
> A million, billion thanks you everyone who’s been here from the start, and the people who picked it up along the way- you guys are the only reasons it ever got this far, and I couldn’t have dreamed of finishing it without all of your constant support. Seriously. Give yourselves a cookie, from me.
> 
> To everyone who has read, kudos’d, commented, recc’d, hell, to everyone in this entire, awesome fandom that is Teen Wolf I say have amazing, fantastic lives, and the support I got here was incredible. You guys got me through some pretty tough times, and I can only hope that this story did the same for some of you out there.
> 
> Fanfiction is an amazing tool, and generally my experiences have been all kinds of awesome, but it can just as easily hurt people as it can help them. So just look out for everyone online, yeah? The world is a scary place, and the internet is even scarier sometimes.
> 
> But, like anything, it all depends on the people who are part of it- and nearly everyone I’ve ever met through fandoms has been kind, compassionate, understanding and helpful- and that’s not something a lot of sites can boast. However, some people seem to think that disrespecting other people’s fandoms and ships somehow makes theirs better- and anyone with an ounce of common sense can tell it doesn’t.
> 
> So if someone’s being a prick, say so. Defend people who might not otherwise be able to. Help out those who are new and are unsure what they’re doing. Be the people we write and read stories about (unless you’re part of the Hannibal fandom. Don’t be that).
> 
> “Protect those who can’t protect themselves”, and thanks for your time. Thanks for sticking with me, and with Stiles and Derek.
> 
> As always, no Beta, and Teen Wolf does not, unfortunately, belong to me, and therefore Stiles and Derek, unfortunately, are not a couple. Woe is me.
> 
> Drop me a comment and tell me what you thought- they always make my day!  
> Much love,  
> H.S.F
> 
>  
> 
> _We might not all be in the same ship, but we all float in the same sea._


End file.
